Adonaïs of the West
by Adamantwrites
Summary: Not quite sure about this story - but here goes - "A new member of Virginia City is enamored of Adam Cartwright - a love doomed from the start."
1. Chapter 1

**All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All plots and OC's are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

 **I**

My father had come for me, taken me from my mother's only surviving parent. I was forced to abandon my schooling and, with this man who was basically a stranger, travel by train and stage across the country to Nevada where I had been born and my long-suffering mother had given up and died after birthing me. Once I debarked the coach at Virginia City, the place was so dreadful, I wondered if she hadn't been glad to perish.

"Now," my father said as we stood by the buckboard as a hired man loaded my many suitcases, "just smile and be polite when I introduce you to people here. I have good standing among these people, many friends and since I expect you to marry and hopefully have children, well, making the proper connections is the first step."

"Of course, Father," I said. I tried not to sound put-upon, not too heart-broken to have left all I knew, but I was.

I had cried in my room after my grandmother came in and told me that she had received a letter from my father, that he was coming to accompany me back home.

"But, Nona, this is my home! All my friends are here – and…" I almost said, "and Ambrose is here." But I didn't. Instead I said, "And my schooling isn't quite over. And what about my tour of Europe after I graduate?"

"I know, my darling, I know," Nona said. Sitting on the edge of my bed, she held out her arms and I fell into her embrace, laying my head on her lap. "I wish you could stay with me, my love, but he is your father."

"But my mother would want me to stay," I added as Nona stroked my hair. "You always said it was her dying wish that you and Grandfather should raise me until I was grown."

"I know my darling, I know." Nona sighed deeply and I sat up to look at her. There were tears on her cheeks. She held my face in her soft hands and sadly smiled. "But you _are_ grown. You're 16. You may not think you are, may not feel you are, but you are. Soon, you'll marry and if God is kind, I'll see my great grandchildren before I go to join your grandfather." She touched my hair. "Ah, you have the same golden waves as your mother – you resemble her so that when you were young, I could almost fool myself – almost – that she was still with us."

And that night, I cried myself to sleep, and in the morning, it seemed the sun was hiding its face and all was gloom as it had n been the day my grandfather died. It had taken me weeks to recover from his death and Nona had said that if it weren't for me, she would have quickly joined her beloved husband in the grave; I had given her the only reason to live.

My father arrived two days after his letter and within another day, I was on my way to the wasteland of Nevada territory where my father was a prestigious town banker who, from what he told me, wielded much power and influence. At least that was his version. I wondered if it was the truth. If it were, it might be providential – perhaps I would have some influence as well.

At last, after what seemed interminable travel, the stage finally pulled up and I climbed down from the dusty, dirty interior; I wasn't impressed by my surroundings. Compared to Boston, this was nothing.

The hired buckboard was waiting for us and the man who had loaded my luggage into the back, looked at me and my clothing and smirked. I quickly looked away and he chuckled. It wasn't that I was shy - I knew I was dressed in the latest style, a cutaway frock coat, wing-collared shirt and a wide, looped necktie - I just didn't like the way he ran his eyes over me. I had seen that look before from other men – that appraisal. I hated it.

"Take the luggage to my house," my father said, handing the man two silver pieces. "The housekeeper will tell you where to put them." The man touched his hat in acknowledgement and with another quick glance at me, climbed up into the seat. I turned aside and listened to the creak of the wheels as they rolled away.

"Now, come with me; it's town day for the Cartwrights – they rarely vary their schedule – and probably having a drink or two or they're at the feed and grain store. Maybe the bank." My father pulled out his pocket watch, popped open the cover and then replaced it. "Let's check the saloon first – it's after noon." I followed my father although all I wanted was to go to the house and lie down; I was fatigued. In my mind ran the French I knew so well and had looked forward to using on my grand tour – "Je suis fatigué." But I merely followed my father who tipped his hat and returned greetings from the men we passed along with the phrase, 'Welcome home', or 'Good to see you back,' and 'I have some business I've been waiting to discuss with you!'

I had never been in a saloon before, just the coffee houses of Boston and a few public houses, but my father pushed through the double doors of one called _The Sazerac_ and then turned to me. "There're two of the Cartwrights here." He walked in and I followed – and other patrons' eyes followed me.

We walked toward a table where two men sat, obviously in a serious discussion. The one about my age turned, and recognizing my father, smiled. He had green eyes, hair as wavy and curly as mine, and an easy way about him. But the other one, he stood up – filling the room with his overwhelming masculine presence and extended his hand toward my father.

"Welcome back, Mr. Weems."

"Why thank you, Adam. And you're just the man I'm looking for."

My father shook the extended hand and standing beside him, I found I couldn't breathe. Here before me was the most glorious man I'd ever seen. His hair under his black Stetson was glossy like a raven's feathers and about the back collar of his shirt and jacket, the hair curled as if caressing his neck. His voice was deep and melodic and his smile – dimples appeared in his cheeks and his teeth flashed white. And he smelled of fresh air, the westerly wind and clean water. He was like Adonaïs in Shelley's poem - _The Light whose smile kindles the Universe._

And then he looked at me and I knew my whole world was going to change.

"Adam, Joe, I want you to meet my son, Virgil."

The younger one, Joe, I think he said something, more than likely a greeting of some sort but my blood hummed in my ears and I couldn't hear much of anything – just saw the beautiful smiling face. And then Adam, and what a magnificent name it was indeed – that of the primal man, the first man –put out his hand and I took it. I noticed the strength of the fingers and the callouses on the palm. There were black hairs on the back of his hand and a few sparse ones on his knuckles – I noticed everything, including the warmth of his skin and the cleanliness of his nails. Everyone else, from Missouri territory onward, seemed to have grime under the fingernails.

"Nice to meet you, Virgil," Adam said, and I was so overcome I could only smile and barely managed to do that; it took all my concentration to breathe. Then he released my hand and I wanted to grab it again and press it to my cheek. Adam Cartwright was the most glorious man I'd ever seen.

My father had mentioned many times on our overland journey, that he felt that I should work on the Ponderosa, the Cartwright ranch, to put some muscle on me, to make a man out of me, and also to introduce me to the people – the wealthy people—of the area. I had protested, expressed my disinclination toward physical labor and my leanings toward the scholarly life, but now, as Adam Cartwright talked to my father – his brother Joseph, obviously bored and tracing oddly-shaped marks on the table top with one finger – I admired the man standing before me. What a magnificent statue Adam would have made as he stood _contrapposto_ , a la Michelangelo's David. And I let my imagination run wild, envisioning his tan field coat, his black hat, his clothes in toto, dropping away and revealing that magnificent physique, the muscularity of his arms and thighs the tightness of his abdomen and the narrow hips. And I could wish for nothing more than to go with him – anywhere – anywhere he desired – even to hell.


	2. Chapter 2

**I apologize to those reading for taking so long with Chapter II. I'm trying to make the OC interesting but keep the focus on Adam and this is more problematic than I thought. I deleted much and rewrote and came up with this chapter. If there are typos, I'll correct them later; if I have to read this one more time this morning, I might just delete the whole thing!**

 **II**

We were invited to sit and I was glad for it as I felt weak in the knees—in his presence, I'm surprised all who saw Adam weren't so affected. Adam raised a hand and put up one finger, turning to catch the barkeep's eye. He called for a beer for my father but I declined anything. I knew I was too young to be served beer – even Joe, who I learned was known as Little Joe, was drinking sarsaparilla – I could tell by the cloying sweet smell - and I didn't want to seem childish in front of Adam. The only alcohol I had ever drunk up to that time was the occasional small glass of claret with dinner at my grandmother's. It had always made me feel a bit sophisticated but at that moment, I felt awkward and foolish, unable to find my voice.

While waiting for his beer, my father broached the subject of my working on the Cartwright ranch. Now that I had met Adam, my whole view on becoming a ranch hand had changed entirely; I longed for it.

"We had talked…," my father said, pausing as the beer was roughly set before him, some of it slopping over the side of the mug. He held the handle and giving a sour smile, raised the mug to his lips, taking a sip. He didn't seem to care for the taste and I realized that my father wanted to appear Adam Cartwright's equal, to hoist a companionly beer-mug in bonhomie; he embarrassed me. My father pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the foam off his moustache. "We had talked about my son working on the Ponderosa for a bit before coming into the bank – you remember?"

Adam said he did remember and I noticed Joe watching me, a quirky, half smile on his face. I surmised he was imagining me as a 'cowboy' and was amused by the idea. I glanced at him and he actually smirked and took up his mug. I sat taller, adjusting the lapel of my frock coat. I was well-dressed and that gave me confidence. Little Joe was dressed like a common ranch hand and definitely 'smelled' bad, unwashed and his fingers were grimy about the cuticles. I was so intrigued at the idea of spending my days with Adam that I hadn't yet come to the realization that I too would have to wear rough dungarees, boots and work shirts and by the end of a work day, would 'stink' and have dirt ground into my fingers.

"Of course, Virgil can come home for the weekends since your ranch hands go to town; I don't want my son to become friendly with that ilk, but during the week, he can stay in the bunkhouse."

Adam smiled but he didn't show his teeth – it was the type of smile a man might give before his hand shot out and caught your throat.

"I'm sorry to hear that as I enjoy a Saturday night in town myself, as does Hoss. Perhaps we're not the type you would like consorting with your son." Adam waited, that smile still on his face. But his eyes were cold.

My father was flustered. "No…it's just that he's only 16, just a boy. He can't…well, Joseph here, he doesn't run with the ranch hands, does he?"

Adam must have decided to stop toying with my father because now he truly smiled and my father sighed in relief; I saw his whole body relax and his hand on the mug loosened its grip.

"I do think it would be good for Virgil to be around real men, other than academicians, get to know what the people here in the west are like. You know, their financial needs and how hard they work. The people, on the whole, are hardened and rough - nothing like the populace of Boston…"

"Boston?" Adam was suddenly alert. He looked at me and my heart stopped as I was transfixed by his gaze.

"Yes. His grandparents…"

"Hey, Adam, another hard-headed Yankee just like you," Joe said, grinning. "See, Virgil, Adam here was born in Boston – went to school back east too."

My heart surged. "I…of course! I knew there was a reason for my immediate affinity with…" I stopped as Adam was looking at me oddly. They all were. And then Little Joe began to giggle. My face grew hot and I sat back. But Adam smiled, gently, kindly – and I found I did too.

"Perhaps one day we can talk about Boston," he said. "It's been a long time since I've been there and my grandfather has passed so there's been no reason for me to return– well, when we have time."

I imagine I was grinning like a fool. Adam was going to make time for me, for a conversation. I started thinking of how I would behave, the things I would say and the matters that were close to my heart. Perhaps he would even touch me. And as Adam and my father discussed my future on the Ponderosa, I watched that face, the subtle expressions that played over his features, and I noticed his lips – full and lush, in the shape of a cupid's bow. And then I noticed it – a scar above his lips on the left side. How had he received it? I would have to ask him. And I longed to touch the mark, to run my finger along the curve of his upper lip and stop there. Then, I would kiss my fingertip and place it on the scar. And in my imaginings, he would be so moved, he would draw me to him and crush my mouth with his.

"Can you ride?" Adam asked. I snapped back to the present.

"What?" I asked. I hadn't been listening and at my remark, Joe giggled. He giggled like a girl. I glared at him disdainfully but that only made him giggle more. He slouched in his chair and pulled his hat down but still laughed. Adam shoved his arm and Joe lifted up his hat, looked at Adam, and then excused himself, his chair legs screeching as they scraped the floor. He giggled all the way out of the saloon.

"Sorry about Joe. He's been riding almost before he could walk. Our father used to sit Joe in front of him and ride around the property. He rides like a demon from hell – flat out wild. I guess he finds it unusual that someone his age can't ride."

"I don't let people like him bother me." As soon as I said it, I knew it was a mistake; Adam seemed to remove himself – he was physically there but I noticed – or thought I noticed, a cooling toward me. Little Joe was his brother and there is the old phrase that blood is thicker than water. Of course, Adam would choose Joe over me and at the time, I had no idea how close the Cartwright family was, almost clannish.

My father cleared his throat and with a tone of disapproval, said to me, "What kind of school did your grandparents send you to that didn't teach riding?" He looked across at Adam. "I left his education to his mother's parents – Bostonian bluebloods. You know how snobbish and superior so many Bostonians feel they are…" His voice trailed off and I suppressed a smile. Adam cocked an eyebrow, a slight smile curving up one side of his mouth as he waited for my father to finish. My father flushed and took another sip of his beer, grimacing slightly at the taste, and wiped his mouth again. My already low opinion of my father dropped even lower. He was terrified of Adam, of offending him. "Well, I suppose I'll hire someone to teach him to ride this weekend. That way when I deliver him Monday – unless you feel he should, I mean, perhaps Virgil should visit the ranch today."

Adam seemed to enjoy my father's discomfort. I admit I did as well. But Adam wasn't so quick to let my father off the hook. I could almost see his mind working behind his eyes. Adam was no fool. My admiration for him grew even greater.

"I suppose you could hire someone to teach Virgil since he didn't learn how to ride in Boston. You know, I don't believe my grandfather knew how to ride a horse either. He was a sea captain." Adam waited.

"Was he now, was he?" my father nervously said.

"Yes, he was. My father was his first mate. That's how he met my mother, through my grandfather." Adam sat calm and unperturbed but my father was falling apart. He had told me the Cartwrights were the biggest ranchers in all the Nevada Territory – perhaps the whole southwest – and that he wanted me to become friends with not only them, but all the prosperous denizens of the area. I realized that many people relied on bankers to help them with loans and such and therefore, wanted to remain in good standing with my father, but I doubted that Adam Cartwright would curry favors from anyone. Especially my father. Adam was the one to whom men kneeled to beg favors – not the other way around.

"But I tell you what," Adam said, giving me a sly wink, "why don't you bring Virgil by the Ponderosa tomorrow. I'll teach him to ride and he can stay as a guest in the house until Monday. Then he can move into the bunkhouse and I'll attach him to an experienced hand who'll teach him the ropes. If that's amenable?"

"Oh, yes," I eagerly replied. I almost rose from my chair with excitement. I was going to be taught to ride by Adam himself!

"Well… yes. I think that would be fine. Tomorrow then." My father stood up since our business was completed, and so did Adam. I did as well, waiting for his attention. He shook my father's hand and then turned to me, smiling and I broke into a grin – I'm sure I looked like a witless fool.

"Be at the Ponderosa tomorrow– nice and early. I'll have a horse picked out for you. And…" His eyes swept over me. "Be sure to wear appropriate clothes." He smiled again and walked out – my eyes followed him. He was tall, broad-shouldered but had an easy gait, completely unselfconscious of his beauty. And that golden aura made him the focus of all eyes. It seemed as if everyone there watched as he made his way across the room and out the swinging half-doors. I stared into the space he had just a moment before, occupied.

"Come along, Virgil," my father said, buttoning his jacket again. "We need to buy you some proper clothes."

I came back to myself and where I was and with whom. "Yes, Father." And I followed him out and once in the street, I looked about to see if I could find Adam Cartwright walking or riding a horse, anything. But he seemed to have vanished.

That night, I lay in the bedroom my father had given me. He called it my room and so had the housekeeper, Mrs. Chastain, but the room was the same as any of the hotel rooms in which my father and I had stayed on our trip.

The mug of warm milk still sat on the nightstand along with the wafers Mrs. Chastain had left it and I reviewed our conversation...

"Your father is so happy you're back. And I've heard so much about you. According to your father, you were quite the gentleman living in Boston. You're educated as well! I so admire a person with an education."

I smiled, hoping she would soon leave me in peace.

"Now, I hope you have a good night's sleep but I understand how it is, being in a new place and all – it's hard to have sleep come, so I've brought you some warm milk and a few cookies. I made them myself – I put in vanilla extract and your father likes them for his stomach – he calls them a…digestif."

Mrs. Chastain looked about the room and then smiled at me sitting upright in bed, her hands clasped and resting on her large midsection.

"I hear you're going to work at the Ponderosa tomorrow."

"Yes." It wasn't that I disliked Mrs. Chastain – after all, I had just met her - I just didn't want to talk but then it occurred to me – she might have some gossip on Adam. After all, she seemed to 'hear' many things. "Adam Cartwright is going to teach me to ride in the morning? Is he one to do so?"

"Oh my, yes," she said, clasping her bosom as if her heart was pounding too much, and she even seemed to blush like a schoolgirl. "Those Cartwrights! Now mind you, the father is quite the handsome man but he'd never even consider giving me a tumble." She blushed and putting a hand to her mouth, practically whispered, "I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have said such a thing!"

I laughed and she seemed to relax a bit. "Not to worry, Mrs. Chastain. But what about Adam? Will I get along with him, do you think?" I controlled my expression but inside, I was churning. What would she say?

"Now that one, that Adam. He doesn't seem to belong out here."

I wanted to say, I don't think so either! He's far too grand for such shabby surroundings and menial labor – he should be a grand duke or even a prince - but I waited for her to say more.

"I know the young girls seem to like him – although he's not the flirt his brother. Little Joe, is. Their looks aren't the same – all three are half-brothers, you know, but all are Cartwrights through and through."

This explained quite a bit, the discrepancy in not just the looks of Adam and Joe, but their manner as well. And a third brother? I supposed I would find out soon enough.

"But at Sunday services" Mrs. Chastain said, happy to have an audience, "the girls do seem to follow that handsome Adam with their eyes even though he fancies Mary Mackenzie. I suppose they're hoping something will come between Adam and Mary because they gather about him like young chicks, each one cheeping to be noticed! Such a handsome young man with his dark looks…and so elegant!

"Now, I've said enough! Law, what you must think of me, that I'm nothing but a gossiping biddy! Good night, young sir. Enjoy your bedtime snack." Mrs. Chastain went to the door and before she closed it, she poked her head back in and said, "Breakfast is at 7:00. I'll wake you – knock on your door at 6:30. Your father likes punctuality." She smiled at me again and closed my door.

I sighed and slid down until my head was on the pillow. Adam had a girl. Of course, he would – what did I expect? But it wasn't what I had hoped to hear and it lay heavy on me.


	3. Chapter 3

**III**

I had slept fitfully in the strange room, and found when I awoke, that I had been dreaming about Ambrose. He and I had been friends since we were children, each of us seeming to be drawn to the other the way kindred souls do. I was a day student at Forsyth Academy, returning each evening to my grandparents' home, but Ambrose was a boarder. He said his parents didn't want him around as they preferred traveling and entertaining without the burden of a child so they just spent money on him to make up for the loss of parental attention. Ambrose said his parents were narcissistic and therefore, indulged themselves and he preferred his life as a boarding student to being their "handsome, accomplished son" who would be brought out and displayed for all to see. Many a holiday he spent at my grandparents' large home and they were happy I had found such a friend as Ambrose.

Because Ambrose's was wealthy, his family, influential, and he was so striking and athletic, no one questioned his friendship with me – at least not out loud. So, I enjoyed basking in his glow and he took care of me, protected me from the others. And I loved him. But after seeing Adam Cartwright, Ambrose had faded away. I felt pangs of guilt.

 _"_ _You will write, won't you, Virgil?"_

 _"_ _Of course – and I won't be able…we can't go on our grand tour as planned…"_

 _"_ _Later, later we will. But promise me you'll write – to my family's address. I'll be sure to receive it then."_

 _"_ _Yes, I will. Bu keep this as a memento."_

 _"_ _Are you sure, Virgil? It was your mother's."_

 _"_ _I'm sure. It's mine to do with as I wish and I want you to have it. I know you can't wear it, but keep it. Please."_

 _"_ _Thank you. I have nothing to give you but my love…"_

I shook the memories from my head and quickly washed and dressed; I only shaved once or twice a week. The new clothing was rough and stiff and far from comfortable. I had complained when I tried them on but the clerk said that the fabric was durable and the construction of the garments was to last for a few years. It would soften and become more comfortable with wear and repeated washings. I asked about the length of the pants legs.

"I need a tailor," I said. The dungarees were at least three inches too long.

The clerk and my father exchanged amused looks. "Roll them up, Virgil, cuff them."

The shirts were also of coarse fabric; one was plaid and another was a light blue.

"Only two shirts!" I was outraged. How was I supposed to wear only two shirts a week?

The clerk chuckled and my father looked nonplussed. "Yes. You'll wear a shirt a few times before you wash it. Besides, you'll wear 'long johns' underneath. That will absorb most of the perspiration and…I can't afford a whole new wardrobe for you. I'm not made of money, you know. I only work in the bank – I don't own it."

"Well, won't I need more than one pair of…of 'long johns'? And what about some nightshirts?"

The clerk laughed out loud at that. "Son, a cowboy wears and sleeps in the same pair of long johns for a few weeks."

"Well, doesn't he stink?" I could barely contain my outrage.

"Damn right, he does. Haven't you smelled any of them yet?"

I thought back to the saloon and Little Joe and how he smelled. Soon, that would be me, smelling like the hole of an outhouse.

And it became worse. The boots were clumsily made, poorly stitched and like wearing iron – they had no bend to them, and the jacket my father chose for me was of plain canvas. Two 'neckerchiefs' and a Stetson and I was set – at least according to my father. For what I was "set", I wasn't sure for when I looked in the mirror in my room, I felt like the poseur I was. I was no cowboy and a suit of clothes didn't make me one. Nevertheless, I packed my other shirt and second pair of dungarees in a small valise and went down to breakfast. Little enough discomfort if I was going to be near Adam.

Between the two of us, my father – who cursed the horse, cursed the buggy, cursed me and my ineptness - and I managed to hitch a supremely annoyed mare to my father's two-seater buggy that was kept in a car shed behind the house.

 _"_ _I rarely take the buggy – usually walk everywhere – good for the constitution."_

 _"_ _What's the horse's name?"_

 _"_ _Um…Roundelay. I pay Old Dixie, the town drunk, four bits a week to clean out her stall and feed and water her every day. I expect one morning I'll find her dead from starvation, Old Dixie being too drunk to manage even something that simple."_

 _"_ _Well, why don't you do it yourself, Father?"_

 _"_ _I am a banker – not a barn boy!"_

It took longer than I expected to reach the Cartwright ranch and when I complained about the time, my father informed me we had been on the Ponderosa, the Cartwright property, from almost the minute we left town. It was hyperbole but, I later discovered, not by much.

Once we pulled into the yard of the large, rustic house, Adam came out to meet us, smiling. My heart rose when I saw him, dressed in a cream-yellow shirt and dark dungarees. I considered how even the clothes of a common ranch hand looked special on him.

"Well, now that I've delivered him to you," my father said, "I'll be off. I suppose I'll see you next weekend, Virgil. I'll be out to fetch you Friday evening."

As soon as my bootheels had hit the ground, my father was ready to go, the reins held up and ready to snap on Roundelay's back. The Cartwrights made him uncomfortable; he wasn't in his milieu here, wasn't behind his big desk at the bank deciding the fate of a poor homesteader who pled for a loan to make it through the winter.

"No, need, Mr. Weems," Adam said. "Virgil will have his own horse to use and by then, he should be able to find his way to town on his own."

They were discussing me as if I weren't present and I found it unsettling but then an older man with grey hair and Little Joe and a huge, unattractive, young man with a broad face but lovely blue eyes, came out of the house. Adam introduced them, his father, his brother, Hoss – my hand becoming lost in Hoss' when he shook it. My stomach churned with anxiety. I hadn't considered others but of course, Adam would have a family. I would have to deal with them as well; I felt a headache coming on, a niggling pain behind my eyes that could blow into an explosion of agony.

My father had enlightened me about the Cartwrights on the drive over: Ben Cartwright had three sons off three different wives. Joe's mother had been some New Orleans slut who died of a broken neck – supposedly it was from a riding accident but some believed Ben, with his powerful hands, had snapped his wife's slender neck when he found her "in flagrante delicto" with one of the ranch hands whom he summarily shot and tossed in the hog pen for their dinner. And Hoss' mother was dead before her child had seen a month of age – murdered by Indians. Of course, I had heard about Adam's mother the previous day. Nevertheless, I asked and my father stated he knew nothing about her except that her name had been Esther…Esmerelda …Elizabeth…something with an "E".

My father quickly left the Ponderosa. I'm sure he was relieved to have handed me off to another and I considered that it must be how Ambrose had felt whenever his parents sent him away. But I dismissed the thought. Ben Cartwright said he was glad to have me as a guest in the house that weekend and asked Joe to show me to my room. I had hoped for a different escort but I longed to lie down and relax, to review the morning. But Adam intervened.

"Joe, take Virgil's bag. I think it's best we start the riding lesson right away. C'mon, Virge."

I would have sneered with disdain had anyone else referred to me as "Virge," but his voice made it sound an endearment, a pet name – it implied a certain intimacy. And so, I smiled and said that would be fine.

In the corral by the barn was a chestnut horse with black mane and tail, snuffling through the dirt for stray hay. It looked enormous. Adam gracefully slipped through the rails of the fence and I followed. What I hadn't expected was to have an audience; Hoss leaned on the top rails of the fence and Little Joe quickly joined him, climbing up and sitting on the top rail, smiling with anticipatory glee.

I hadn't cared for Roundelay and she had no interest in me and although reluctant, she complied with my father as he laced her in the buggy traces, winding leather straps through metal loops and buckles, sometimes erroneously and having to redo them, but she had patiently stood. Once Roundelay had swung her head my way and I feared she would attempt to nip, but she didn't. But this horse was bigger, bulkier, and had larger hooves with slight feathers about the hocks. In Boston, I had seen draft horses pulling wagons and they had basically the same configuration – only even larger.

"This is Maggie," Adam said as he took up the horse's reins and patted her neck. Maggie turned her head toward him and Adam rubbed her forehead. Had she been a cat, she would have purred.

"Is she to be my horse?" I could imagine the other ranch hands on their sleek cowponies snickering at me as I rode about on this 'plug'.

"Yes. She's a good, strong horse – part Belgian stock. Good-tempered. But she does have a mind of her own so you'll have to keep her under control. Once you become comfortable on her, you'll get another horse." I could already hear the ridicule as I spoke Maggie's name, all the ribbing I would get as she plodded along – they would probably compare me to ridiculous Ichabod Crane who also rode an unsuitable horse.

"What about that one?" I pointed to a beautiful, black horse, obviously male, beyond the corral who grazed while tied to two long leads staked into the ground. "Why can't I ride him?"

"Yeah, Adam," Joe said giggling. "Let him ride Jupiter."

"Tha'd be somethin' to see, right Joe," Hoss said, nudging him with his elbow and grinning. My face flushed and I felt my headache becoming more demanding of my attention.

"Joe, just be quiet" Adam said. Then to me, "Come over here to mount up."

"But I'd really prefer that one." I still stood looking at the beautiful black horse with its well-formed legs and muscled neck. Now that I think of my foolishness in asking for the stallion, I blush all over again. I should have just accepted Adam's superior wisdom about horses but I wanted him to think well of me, to see me as a man, not some naïve kid who knew nothing about horses. But I did know nothing.

Adam sighed. He was about to speak when Hoss spoke up. "Know why he's double-staked out there?" Joe giggled and I shook my head. " 'Cause there's a broodmare in season we got corralled 'bout two miles down the road and she ain't for him. Iffen you got on him, why he'd take off and both of you'd be climbing on that mare's back afore you could take two breaths."

I didn't know what to say; my mouth gaped open. I couldn't think of a cutting remark, something that would put them in their inferior place.

"Shut up, you two. If you're going to stay and watch, be quiet unless you have something constructive to add."

"That was constructive!" Joe said and he and Hoss both laughed, but when they saw Adam's expression, they coughed and repressed their laughter – but they still had those simpering smiles.

"Virgil, come over and take the reins." Adam waited and I approached him. I stupidly stood. I knew I was supposed to get up on the horse, had seen other people do so but this was such a large, awkward saddle; nothing like what I had seen in Boston.

"First, check the cinch – always check the cinch before you mount up." I watched as Adam did so – his elegant, long fingers expertly working the trapping and I smiled at his grimace as I was sure it took little effort on his part. I would never be able to do such a thing, I was sure. "See," Adam explained as he turned back to me, "horses blow out their stomachs so the cinch won't be tight – they're damn smart, crafty. Once the horse is settled, you have to tighten it again." The horse shifted its feet, huffed, moved and I stepped back with, I'm sure, a look of abject terror. I could hear Joe giggling at my fear.

"The horse is trained to stand in place once the reins are dropped. All cowponies are trained that way because often, there's no place to tie them. But once you pick up the reins and move to its left side, the horse will watch you because it knows what's coming. To keep Maggie from nipping you – she'll take a piece out of your ass if you're not careful – pull the right rein tightly. Each horse has its own behavior or misbehavior. Just let Maggie know who's boss and she'll be fine - but she will test you."

"Yeah," Hoss called out from the fence, "horses are just like wimmin – they all wanna know just how far they can push you afor you smack 'em!" Adam smiled at the remark and Joe giggled again.

"Hold the reins and the saddle horn in your left hand – like this." Adam did so and with one hand on the rise behind the seat, which I late found out was called a cantle, he slipped a boot into the stirrup and with one, elegant motion, swinging his right leg over, he was topside, sitting on the horse. With Adam sitting on "Maggie," she no longer looked like some dull farm horse but the great steed of a medieval knight, bred to carry a magnificent warrior wearing his shining armor. Then Adam just as gracefully dismounted.

"Now you," Adam said, handing me the reins, two separate strips of leather, and I was determined to do my best to imitate what I had seen.

I took the reins but the horse took a step forward eyeing me. Adam grabbed the bridle. The horse stood resignedly. I too would just as gladly be mastered.

"Try again." Adam waited patiently. I glanced at Hoss and Little Joe who were watching me like two baboons. I hated them.

Finally, after three or four efforts and with Adam holding Maggie's bridle, I sat the horse and I was further from the ground than I had ever imagined. By now my face was hot with exertion, sweat ran down my cheeks and my sides and my head throbbed with pain. Not only that, but Hoss and Joe clapped and hooted. It only served to infuriate me.

"Good job," Adam said. "Now, what do you know about neck reining?"


	4. Chapter 4

IV

I have determined that I detest horses and all the accoutrements; a western saddle and bridle appear designed to exasperate both the saddler and the saddled. And although I was cautious, Maggie did take a vicious bite at me and my posterior was sore for days – I had a huge purple bruise that throbbed every time I was jolted in the saddle.

Unfortunately, in western riding, there is no such thing as posting – the up and down motion a rider takes to avoid having a tooth-jarring ride and that causes extreme discomfort.

"Just relax," Adam said at my first riding lesson as I jounced up and down– and my second riding lesson and my third! He was infinitely patient with me, his golden-flecked eyes always kind and gentle. But Hoss and Joe elbow-jabbed each other and giggled, guffawed and made all types of unpleasant noises as they watched my clumsiness.

During my second lesson, Sunday afternoon, Adam became fed-up and turned on them, his arms akimbo and reminded them that the riding lesson wasn't for their amusement. They sobered a bit then, remembering the debacle of the previous day's lesson. But due to the novelty of that lesson, I could well understand their eagerness to be present at my second but it was without major incident. Hopefully, I disappointed them as I remained self-contained and focused; nothing could have been as bad as Saturday's lessons.

That Saturday, after I had finally managed to sit the horse, Adam explained about neck-reining and I tried to concentrate but horse flies buzzed about my head and landed on Maggie whose skin quivered when they landed and bit; I found it disconcerted me.

"Since the cowhand has to be free to lasso calves and such, the horse responds to the pressure of the rein on its neck; it'll turn on a dime although Maggie is a bit slower in responding since she's bigger. Now try it – hold the reins higher and in one hand – your left. Lay the right rein across that side of her neck and apply pressure with with your left leg."

Maggie obeyed, turned and I, in my surprise, immediately pulled back on the reins and she stopped, swinging and nodding her head when the reins went lax.

"I don't think she likes me," I said.

Adam, for the first time, showed a bit of frustration. "It doesn't matter. The horse doesn't have to like you – Maggie only needs to know you're in charge. Now, kick her again and turn her in a large circle. No, no, use the reins to turn her. Yes, lay them across her neck in the opposite direction you want her to turn."

The sun beat down and my head throbbed as if a sledge hammer was being swung inside my skull trying to break through. And the damned flies buzzed about and tried to enter my nose and ears and would have gone up my asshole had I been pantless. I turned Maggie into plodding figure eights again and again in the corral.

Once she stopped and refused to move. I kicked her, snapped the reins and yelled in frustration. Adam told me to stop and to lean forward, to take my weight off her haunches. I did as he said and was only rewarded with the sound of a stream of urine, the dust rising up and filling my nostrils. Then she shifted her weight again and Adam told me to push Maggie into a trot and continue with the figure eights. I did, only with her heavy trotting, I slammed into the saddle with each jog; I felt my backbone would shatter.

"Best take care," Hoss called out, 'or your balls're gonna be flatter'n tortillas!" Joe giggled even louder at that remark. Seemingly encouraged, Hoss added, "Ain't no woman gonna lay down for you iffen you ain't got nothin' to slap against her as you're heavin' over her!"

Joe laughed at that even more and then loudly added, "Unless of course, you save your dollar a day and buy a whore – she'll like the fact you ain't got much to poke her with!"

I noticed a small grin on Adam's face. I suppose it all would have been humorous, even to me, if I hadn't been the target. But before I considered the situation, I pulled harshly on Maggie's reins. She stopped abruptly and I fell against her neck, dropping a rein. Joe and Hoss laughed harder at that. I shouted, "Don't you two ever stop making half-wit attempts at rustic humor, you…you… oafish dullards? You braying jackasses!"

I saw Hoss' face change from amused to confused as, still holding the top rail, he stepped back – I don't know whether it was surprise that I would defend myself or if he was too dumb to understand what I had said, but it gave me confidence. I was sure both he and Little Joe combined had the intelligence of a chicken – a notoriously stupid fowl - and if desired, I could quickly devastate them both with a few well-crafted insults. I had been known at school for my biting humor and those less quick avoided offending me.

"Now just a minute," Adam said. I looked down to him which was a mistake – from my boxing lessons at school, I knew never to let one's guard down but when Adam spoke to me, once I realized I had incurred his displeasure, I swiveled my head. Surely, he understood that I had reached my breaking point, that I would no longer allow his brothers their jibes and quips at my expense. And the next I knew. I was being pulled off my horse by Joe. I apparently hadn't noticed his swift movement, his jumping down from the fence to defend his larger brother.

I landed awkwardly in the dirt, releasing the reins, and Maggie, distressed by the humans struggling about her feet, threw her head and danced about, her large hooves dangerously close. Joe lifted me by my shirt and slammed a fist into my face – but only one time as, in my line of vision, Hoss rose up behind him and pulled Joe off me. My jaw throbbed matching the waves of pain in my head.

I could hear Adam speaking soothingly to the horse as he held her bridle, "Whoa, girl. Easy does it, easy does it…" Then Hoss grabbed my forearm and pulled me up. I stood, albeit unsteadily, as my head was spinning. I noticed Maggie trotting to the side of the corral and Adam approaching, looking stern.

Hoss still held Joe by the back collar of his jacket. "Joe, apologize to our company."

"He's not company! He's some snot-nosed, bean-eating, Boston bluenose who can't take a joke! And you heard what he said! He called you me both, oafish dullards!"

"Well," Hoss said, a gentle smile on his well-humored, broad face. "I'd probably be a helluva lot madder iffen I knew what it meant, but, c'mon, Joe. Apologize to Virgil."

"Only if he'll apologize for what he said first." Joe frowned, his face dark, his curls unkempt and wild. He was a beautiful boy, that I had to admit, but he was also vulgar and of poor breeding, the whelp of a New Orleans trollop.

Adam, standing with his brothers, said, "I think that's a good idea. Both of you apologize and shake hands."

I hadn't expected it – it came on so suddenly, brought on by my headache and the heat and flies and the stench of rank sweat and horse shit as Maggie proceeded to defecate right then and there – I retched, vomited in the dirt and Little Joe, with a loud sound of disgust, jumped back. I crumpled in the dirt, continuing to retch and I heard Joe say, "Damn, he spewed on my boots and…look, on my pant's leg too! Shit!"

"No, that's over there," Hoss said, motioning with his head to the steaming pile with the flies gathering about it, and the three Cartwright brothers laughed. But Adam did come over and help me stand while Hoss and Joe headed for the trough in the yard.

"Why don't you go wash up, Virgil – lie down before lunch. My Pa will show you to your room, We'll take up the lessons tomorrow. Okay?"

I weakly nodded and staggered to the house, dreading the next day.

That afternoon, I passed up luncheon, and that evening, I stayed in my room, not going down to dinner although Ben Cartwright tried to convince me by explaining their servant, Hop Sing, had made a special dinner in my honor – pan-fried trout with fresh buttered peas and creamed potatoes. Just hearing about food made my stomach roil and my head hurt too much to eat anyway. Besides, I feared another embarrassing incident – I could just see myself spewing chunks of food over the dining table the same way Cronos had wildly regurgitated his godly children. Besides, I was certain the whole Cartwright family would enjoy their dinner conversation at my expense and it was not narcissism that made me sure I would be the main topic at table.

It was almost dark and I thrashed in my bed, pounding my head with the heels of my hands in the hope of diverting the pain, when I heard a knock on my door.

"Come in," I croaked. It was Adam.

"I brought you a dose for your headache. Hop Sing makes his own anodyne that's a little easier to swallow than just laudanum– he mixes the opiate with honey, lemon, and ground anise seed." He held out a glass with about a half-inch of amber liquid in the bottom.

I pushed myself up and with a shaky hand, took the glass – my hand shook so that the glass clattered on my teeth. Adam held my hand and the glass with both of his as I downed it. It was sweet but at the back of my tongue, I tasted the bitterness of the opiate. I must have shown my distaste.

"It's always bitter in the end, isn't it?" Adam said with a wry smile as I fell back on my pillow. Holding the empty glass, he reached down and I thought he was going to stroke my hair, but instead, he pulled out a piece of straw or hay. He placed it and the glass on the nightstand. "Souvenir of your first riding lesson," He said, smiling. And as he had bent over me, I could smell his scent, musky, sensual, and inviting – I wanted to reach up for him, to touch his cheek which was now covered with dark stubble. He was so overtly male but seemed unaware of the effect he had on others.

"Thank you for the medicine. I left my pills in a trunk at my father's house."

With one hand, Adam pulled the chair from the desk, swung it around and sat across it, his arms resting on the top of the chairback. His shirt sleeves were rolled up above his elbows and dark hair lay along his golden skin, his shirt, open at the neck, revealed the black, coarse hairs on his chest. He was going to stay a bit and my hopes rose that he still had warm feelings for me; I feared he would be angry with me for the way I had spoken to his brothers.

"I'm sorry about what I said to Joe and Hoss…it wasn't…it's just the comments they were making – so vulgar - crass."

Adam chuckled. "Well when you live out here, everywhere you look there's a stallion covering a mare, a rooster treading a hen or a boar rutting with a fat sow. Sex becomes something you have to treat as a joke or the world's an acute embarrassment. It's the way most of the men talk, as if women are of no use except for pleasure – unless, of course, it's a man's mother. Then she's a virginal saint despite the evidence of their very existence proving otherwise. Besides, my two brothers would have less respect for you if you'd just gone along with their taunting. Sometimes you just have to stand up for yourself but first, you need to make sure if you get knocked down, you can get back up."

I smiled weakly. "Yes…I know how to box. We had lessons at school and I was good at it. But I suppose out here…"

He chuckled. "No Marquis of Queensberry rules here. The best you can hope for is to get in the first blow and take advantage of it. But since you and Joe are the same age, well, it would be nice if the two of you became friends. He could introduce you around."

I wanted to say that could never happen as I detested Joe but I only weakly smiled. I felt a heaviness overtaking my limbs. The pounding in my head was dulling and I felt drowsy. "I don't think I'm cut out to be a ranch hand," I said, but my tongue felt thick and wouldn't quite work, wouldn't curl around the vowels.

"Seems like the Hop Sing's concoction is kicking in." Adam stood and with an arc of his arm, placed the chair back where it had been before. "Sleep as late as you like. Tomorrow's going to be a busy day."

"Yes, yes," I said aloud – or meant to say aloud. I shut my eyes and couldn't have opened them again had I tried. I felt the cool sheet pulled up to my neck and then a large hand on my forehead. I knew my mind was muddled and perhaps Adam was feeling if I had a fever, but his fingers then gently pushed the curls off my forehead and he apparently stood there for a few moments longer. And then I heard him leave, his footsteps heading away and then the soft _shush_ of the bedroom door followed by silence. Then I fell into a dreamless sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**V**

I ended up staying in the main house instead of the bunkhouse; when my father found out, he was displeased and told me it was time I grew up and became a man, not some spoiled child and he blamed my grandparents for my sensitive nature. I wanted to shout that Adam Cartwright was a man but had the nature of a poet, of an artist! What did he think of that? But I didn't.

It was that first Sunday evening and most of the ranch hands had returned. Lamps lit the bunkhouse windows and men wandered about the yard, tending their horses, putting them in the corral for the night and sounds of their laughter and conversations floated up to my window at the side of the house. From there, I could see a few men sitting on the steps of the long building dotted with windows every few feet, one sewing on a shirt button, one whittling a piece of wood and another chewing and spitting tobacco. Another tall, slender man with sandy-blond hair and a drooping moustache, leaned against the stair railing, drinking a cup of what I assume was coffee, and greeting each man as he came in – some with a word, some with a nod. He had an air of authority and was probably the foreman. So far, I had only seen two ranch hands who were as young as I or thereabouts.

I turned at the knock on my door and Adam came in, a pair of saddlebags thrown over one shoulder and a bedroll under his arm.

"Ready for the bunkhouse?"

"I suppose, as I don't think there'll ever be a good time for it."

Adam chuckled. "They're basically a good group – most of them. Jett Burton's the foreman."

"Is he tall, lean, with sandy hair and a moustache?" I turned back to the window and Adam walked over and stood beside me. I could have reached out and touched him, taken his hand in mine. But I didn't dare.

"Yeah, that's him." Now, I became Adam's focus. He had a way of looking at a person as if every word that dropped from his lips was fascinating, as if that person was the only other worldly inhabitant and he wanted to know everything about him. I reveled in his attention and I could then imagine how the females must feel when Adam turned his attention on them. They probably wet their pants just like an excited puppy that pees uncontrollably.

"I brought you these." He tossed the saddlebags on the bed. They were of scarred leather, old and soft and the edges were curled. I noticed the same brand on the flaps that was on Maggie's haunch, a tree. He tossed the bedroll in the chair in the corner

"Why?" I stared at the saddlebags.

"For your things. You can't go to the bunkhouse with a valise. Pack your clothes and shaving kit and anything else you own in the saddlebags. You can unpack in there – you'll get a shelf – and use the saddlebags every day on the property; sometimes you'll be out overnight, maybe even three or four nights depending on where Jett sends you. And the bedroll, well, keep it in the bunkhouse until you need it."

"Wait…don't you or your father assign people to their jobs?"

"My father and I meet with Jett Monday mornings – early - and decide what needs to be done that week. Then Jett assigns the men and follows up. That's what a foreman's for and why we pay him so well."

"How well?"

"Very well. Now, pack up and Hoss'll take you over." He headed for the door.

"Hoss? But he doesn't care for me. Won't he…poison the well, so to speak?"

Adam turned at the door. "Look, forget about that. Hoss doesn't hold a grudge over a few insults from someone your age. He's basically good-natured and has a big-heart; he's always ready to forgive. If you need anything, Hoss is the one to ask."

"But why don't you take me over? I'd rather have them think I'm a friend of yours."

Adam sighed and looked bothered, as if he didn't want to waste time explaining. I had hoped he would be flattered at my request. "You want the men to think Hoss has accepted you; he's young, only 22, but the men respect him because he can take on any man and win, but he'll help the man back up and shake his hand. But I guess you know that."

I knew he was referring to my tussle with Joe Saturday afternoon and how Hoss had helped me. "But you're in charge – you and your father."

"That's right. But I'm not one of them – not like Hoss. I never will be. I can tell a filthy joke, drink hard rotgut and play poker but I never let myself get drunk or lose too much money or what would be worse, win too much – I stay in control because I have to keep my distance and the men resent it to a degree – that's only natural. But I am second only to my father. Do you understand?"

Looking at him, I did. I realized that inside, Adam was coiled like a snake and that if one wasn't adequately careful, that snake would strike. A potential rage simmered beneath his golden skin, his calm veneer. He was a volcano you didn't want to erupt – at least not in your face.

"Why don't you leave here?" I suddenly asked. My voice had a tinge of hope, that he would decide to leave for back east and I could go with him.

For two heartbeats, Adam stood silent, weighing his words.

"Maybe one day I will. But my family is here and therefore, this is my home."

"But where is your heart…" My voice dropped away. I suddenly realized I had no right to ask such a personal question.

He smiled. "Beating in my chest. Now, pack your things."

I felt like a condemned man walking to the gallows as Hoss escorted me downstairs, past Mr. Cartwright, Adam and Little Joe who said their goodnights, and around the side of the ranch house to the bunkhouse. I could hear harmonica music.

Hoss, walking beside me, his hands shoved into his pockets, said, "I ain't one to go around givin' advice – I'm more the kind who needs it – but iffen I were you, I wouldn't be callin' the other men none of them names no matter how mad you get. That wouldn't be wise."

"Oh, Hoss…about that… what I called you…"

"Don't worry, Virge. Joe and me, well, we was givin' you a hard time – we shouldn't have - and after Adam told me what them words meant, well, I got to admit I am a little bit of an oaf – and I ain't all that smart, at least not book-smart like Adam."

"Well, I am sorry." Hoss put a huge arm about my shoulders and pulled me close – it wasn't altogether unpleasant. We stepped inside the bunkhouse and silence fell. Hoss greeted the group and they mumbled back but waited. Hoss introduced me to Jett Burton, the foreman, and the other men in the bunkhouse. I couldn't even begin to remember their names except for Salty – he was the cook and his kitchen was at the far end behind a Dutch door – that's where the tables for meals were.

"Salty?" To me, the only reason a cook would be called 'Salty", was that he over-salted his food.

"He cooked on whaling ships," Jett explained. Ah, I thought, someone else from New England.

"You any relation to Banker Weems?" a man named Tosh asked.

"Yes. He's my father."

"Well, then," another said, standing up. "Here…you take this bottom bunk. It's got a better mattress – no pissing accidents and no lice."

"Hey," a young cowboy about my age said, standing up, the harmonica in his hand. "I just made up that bunk."

"Well, you can make yourself up another one," Tosh said and although he had his back to me, I could see the young cowboy's face; he smiled as if suddenly enlightened. A few of the other men smiled as well and looked down to hide their conspiratorial smiles. Something was going on. I swore to myself I would be vigilant and tossed my saddlebags on my bunk. Jett showed me a shelf for my personal items.

"Nobody'll touch your things and you keep your hands off theirs. We live close to each other and we have to get along. Outhouse behind the building. Good to have you." He patted my arm and went back to sit in a worn leather chair to watch over his men.

"Hey, Virgil," one of the men said, playing poker at a round table at one end of the long room, wearing nothing but his long underwear, "you wanna play a few hands of poker?"

"I don't have any money." I also had no knowledge of the game but didn't want to admit that to them.

"Your daddy's the town banker and you ain't got no money? Won't your pappy lend you any?" They had all turned to me, waiting for me to respond but all I could think of was spewing invectives at their dull, stupid faces. Hoss rested an elbow on an upper bunk, leaning and watching. Then he spoke up.

"At only a dollar a day, what banker would lend money to him - or any of you hornswogglers?"

And the men laughed good-naturedly and asked Hoss to join them in a hand of poker. He said he didn't have any money on him either but one man said that his credit was good with them – they just had to walk a few yards to collect a debt. The men chuckled. Hoss said he only made a dollar a day as well, and then laughed along with them. He pulled up a chair and joined in the poker game, the whiskey they drank provided by the Ponderosa – a bottle per man each month.

There was a constant background noise of men talking and laughing, the smell of cigarette smoke filling the air. I stripped down to my long johns and slipped under the sheets – actually sheet. I had only a rough wool blanket to pull over me. I closed my eyes, my mind darting about like a terrified mouse. They laughed too much, smoked too much, cursed too much. I raised up on an elbow and asked them once to keep it down—I was weary. One man said that he was so sorry and another said to excuse him all over, but they were both sarcastic. Chuckles followed and remarks slipped between the men. The noise continued so I don't know how I did it, but I fell asleep. I woke up once that night, when a man climbed into the upper bunk – the noise and weight of his feet woke me. I rolled out of my bunk and stepped outside; I opened the door of the outhouse and the reek was nauseating. So instead, I relieved myself against a tree, resting one hand against the trunk to take the weight off the lower half of my body. And I thought of Maggie – I was no better than she, a dumb beast pissing in the open. Well, I thought, "pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall" and I certainly had fallen and my pride – I had none left. After all, of what did I have to be proud?

~ 0 ~

Before I opened my eyes, I was aware of a loud sound as if a door had slammed, and then deathly quiet. Twice that night, snoring had woken me; it was only my nervous exhaustion that had allowed me to sleep at all. I blinked my eyes open and it was not full daylight – about 6:00 in the morning, and I looked at the underside of the bunk above me – the room was dim. I must have overslept but since no one had bothered with me, I thought I'd sleep longer. I rolled over onto on my side and was suddenly jarred; it was as if a gigantic spider had spun a web about my bunk! Those bastards had wound rope over and across, knotting it at spots and weaving in and out at others, trapping me in the bunk!

I struggled with the ropes, pulled on them, tried pushing them apart so I could slip through but there's one thing I learned about cowhands, they know how to knot a rope. I was furious and frustrated! I realized I had no other recourse. It was either stay trapped in my bunk until the hands came in for their evening meal, or yell for help. I started to yell.

Half a minute or so went by and then Adam pushed open the door, Hoss behind him, and they stared at me peeking out from the entanglement of ropes. Hoss began to giggle, turned and walked back down the steps. Adam pursed his lips to keep from laughing. I could hear the roar of raucous laughter from outside; they had all been in on it – even Jett.

"This isn't funny! I'm trapped in here! Will you let me out, Adam? Please!"

Adam pulled a jack knife from his pocket, a double-blade jack knife, and cut rope in strategic places so I could fight my way out.

"Those bastards…" My chest heaved with righteous anger. And Adam was smiling! How could he think what had happened was funny? "Oh, so you think it's funny too, that they had me trapped in my bunk! They were all in this together!"

"Of course, they were. You're the newest hand – you had to be tested with something. It could be worse – a lot worse."

I stormed toward the door and Adam grabbed my arm, swinging me about. He was serious – his eyes had gone dark and the humorous curve to his lips was gone. If I hadn't been so enraged, I would have seen that I was treading on dangerous ground.

"Think twice before you do anything, say anything. You're going to have to live with them for a while so make it easy on yourself; take this with the right attitude. You were bested. They know it – you know it. Take it."

"I won't! How dare they treat me this way? Me?"

Adam let me go and I still, to this day, remember his face and his eyes, like lightning at midnight.

The hands had finished their hooting and laughing and were getting ready to leave for the day. They were already broken off into groups, but when I stormed onto the porch, they stopped and waited. Hoss and Joe were with them.

"You laughing, hyenas! You stinking jackals! Blackguards!" My mind went to all the bad names I had ever heard but none of them seemed bad enough. "Whoresons! Horse-buggers!"

I felt a firm hand on my back collar – then a twist that caused it to tighten and close my throat - and I was jerked back.

"Keep your goddamn mouth shut or I'll shut it for you," Adam hissed. He settled himself and then stepped onto the porch – the men waited and so did I. He was like some grand medieval Italian count, standing in his belvedere, waiting to address the peasants gathered below.

"I have to say, it was a difficult decision, whether or not to slice through all that valuable rope to let Virgil out – but it was a change - for once I cut through somethin' other than shit." The men broke into laughter and then went back to what they had been doing before – mounting their horses or loading wagons. But Jett must have caught something, some flick of Adam's eye, a subtle motion, because he walked up the steps. Adam stepped back into the bunkhouse and Jett did as well, pulling off his hat.

"Sorry about all the rope…" Jett started.

"No problem. We can still use it, tie it together. But…" Adam turned to look at me and then turned back to Jett, crossing his arms high on his chest, his fingers under his arm pits, his thumbs pointing upward. I decided this was a way of his staying in control. "As for him, I'll have Virgil wind it into coils and then..."

"ME?" I shouted, stepping toward the two of them, my arms flailing. "I'm not the one who…" Adam gave me a look that scorched my skin. I shut my mouth and stepped back.

"Virgil will wind it in coils and after he has something to eat, I'll take him out with me. I'm repairing line on the east pasture, about four miles out. That sit all right with you?"

Jett looked past Adam at me, then nodded to Adam. "That sits just fine." Jett put his hat back on, glanced at me once more, and left.

Adam didn't even look at me, just said, "Get the rope rewound, get dressed, get something to eat and then get your ass out of here and be ready to work."


	6. Chapter 6

**VI**

I dressed quickly, fumbling with the buttons, and then sat on my bunk, unwinding, unknotting and winding; the task was almost Sisyphean and my fingers became raw from the rough hemp. Time was passing and I wasn't making much headway, it seemed the knots had been pulled tighter and I had to work at them, attempt to release the cruel hold one length of rope had about another. In frustration, I began to cry. The tears rolled down my cheeks and my nose ran. I raised my arm, still holding a rope, and wiped my upper sleeve across my nose– no one was there to see – everyone else was, thankfully, out on the property. Except Adam. He opened up the door and stood, his hands on his hips and stared at me. I ram my sleeve across my nose again.

"Not through yet, I see."

I looked up. "No. It's taking a long time and I…"

Adam flung off his hat, made a sound of disgust and sat on the side of my bunk alongside me, hunched over, helping to untangle the snake-like rope. His long fingers moved deftly and he seemed to have a flair for finding the exact spot where a knot gave way and the ropes fell helplessly open, like a woman's legs as she succumbed to him, I imagined.

Adam said nothing, his mouth pursed with concentration, and we worked in silence except for my occasional sniffing. Finally, all that was left were lengths of rope. Adam stood up, rubbed his lower back, and picked up his hat.

"Leave the ropes. You can finish with them tonight. We need to get to work – it must be on to nine." With one last subtle shake of his head that expressed his irritation with my clumsiness, Adam turned and left. I grabbed my hat and my saddlebags and hurried out to the yard where Adam already sat on the seat of a buckboard. I climbed up and before I could sit, Adam snapped the reins and said, "Hyah!" and the buckboard jolted ahead. I almost fell on my head but managed to get into my seat and toss my saddlebags into the back. We rode in silence across the property to the east pasture.

On the ride from town with my father, I had been too nervous, too anxious to pay attention to the land which was the Ponderosa, but now I could. This part of the property was lush, perfect for grazing but there were also stands of various trees – tress of all types- and wildflowers were in bloom. It was hot but I knew that as the summer wore on, it would become hotter and the flowers would change and so would the grass. But for now, the grass with spotted with the blue-blossomed spiderwort, the blood-red poppies, and the sunny yellow of daisies. And green – green was everywhere except for the sharp blue of the sky. It was glorious.

Adam pulled the wagon up under trees near a stretch of wire fencing, some of which was sagging and a few fence posts were fallen and lying half-hidden in the grass. He jumped from his seat after securing the brake and loosening the reins so the horse could graze. I followed suit. He reached into the back of the buckboard and pulled out some gloves, a few pairs, and sorted through them, finally tossing a brown pair at me. I caught the gloves and looked at their worn fingers, parts of the leather almost shredded. They were stiff with dried sweat.

"You don't have a pair of your own, do you?' Adam asked, slipping his hands into black leather work gloves.

"No," I answered.

"That's an old pair of Joe's. They should fit." He lifted out a coil of wire and tossed it on the ground. Following it was a posthole digger. Then Adam opened a tool chest and took out what he needed, a hammer, wire cutters, nails.

I held the gloves as if they were a dead, rotting animal. Obviously, Joe had worn them for quite a while.

"Well, c'mon," Adam said. "We have to make up for lost time." He went to the fence and began to clip wires.

I had to work my fingers and hands into the stiff gloves and it felt as if I was slipping into Joe's skin. It was disconcerting but I had no time to ponder it – Adam had yelled for me to get my ass busy cutting wire. He tossed a pair of clippers quite a way down the fence line so I went and did what I thought I should – clip the wires.

All morning, the sun rising higher and higher and the day becoming hotter and hotter, we worked, the silence only broken when Adam gave me direction. I learned how to dig a posthole and reset the downed one or replace a broken or rotted fence post with one from the buckboard. With some struggle, I learned to pull the wire tight and to keep it in place by pounding in the nail and then bending it and hammering it flat against the post to hold the wire in place.

Adam looked up at the sky, squinting, and then pulled off his gloves. "Let's eat." I nodded in agreement. We were both dripping sweat but Adam, even though he was wearing his hat to shield his eyes, had tied his bandana about his forehead to keep the sweat from dripping in his eyes. I had forgotten a neckerchief and my hat made me hotter so I spent all morning wiping my face with my shirt-sleeves. Both our shirts were soaked with sweat.

Adam sat under a small stand of trees with his saddlebags and a canteen and pulled out a thick sandwich wrapped in oiled paper. I sat beside him like a loyal dog, waiting for scraps tossed in my direction, my stomach clenching with hunger.

"You brought your saddlebags – didn't you get your lunch from the bunkhouse kitchen?" Adam asked, chewing.

"I didn't know I was supposed to. You didn't tell me to."

"The last time you took a shit, I didn't tell you to wipe your ass but I'm guessing you did anyway."

My face grew hot. I had already been embarrassed in front of Adam once today and now my naivete and ineptness was obvious again. I didn't belong there. When was he going to tell me to go home – that the Ponderosa was no place for me? I just sat there.

Adam slid his hand into his saddlebag and pulled out another sandwich. He held it out to me. "Here."

I considered not accepting, telling him that he could keep his lunch and showing I had pride but I hadn't had any breakfast either. And I hadn't any pride – not yet. And from what I had seen of Adam, he would have merely said, "Suit yourself," and gone on to eat both sandwiches while I slavered beside him.

"Thank you," I said and taking it, sat down. It was a sandwich of thick slices of fried bacon on sourdough bread. We ate in silence and Adam shared his canteen with me as he had done while we worked. Then he pulled out an apple and using his jack knife, sliced it in two, tossing me half. It was sweet and crisp and I noticed the singular manner Adam had of eating an apple, holding it as if it was an elegant jewel. But when he finished, he negligently tossed the core section over his shoulder. I wonder if that was how he treated his lovers – consuming them, enjoying their juices and then negligently tossing them aside.

"Let's move the wagon further down," Adam said, standing up after he had eaten. He wiped his hands on the legs of his dungarees. "We can get almost a while mile completed before we knock off." I said nothing, just followed his direction and worked. By early afternoon, I was exhausted and the food I had eaten lay like stones in my stomach. I had taken off my shirt, my long underwear making me just too hot, and had used it to wipe away the sweat and swat away the flies. Everything was too much though and I dropped to the ground, sitting slumped over and held my head, fighting nausea. I heard a heavy object hit the ground, the hammer, I guessed since the pounding had ceased.

"We'll stop for the day."

I nodded but didn't look up. Adam began gathering the tools. I could hear as he tossed the items in the toolbox and loaded the spool of wire. I wanted to help but when I tried to stand, I almost toppled over. I managed to lay down in the grass, my eyes closed. I guessed it was early afternoon from the angle of the sun burning through my lids. My head throbbed and the ground seemed to undulate as if I was floating on the sea. A shadow fell across me and looking up, I saw it was Adam leaning over me.

"You all right?" He looked concerned.

"I just…it's so hot."

"C'mon." He extended one hand. I took it and he pulled me up but when he saw me falter, he grabbed my arm. "I don't know if a person ever gets used to the heat but it'll get hotter still. That's why we try to take care of all this type of work now. It gets so hot we have to drive the cattle to the high ground because here, the grass burns. Why don't you lie down in the back of the buckboard?"

Even though my head was spinning, I knew I couldn't do that, have Adam pull into the yard of the Ponderosa with me sick in the back of the buckboard. I would never hear the end of it from the other ranch hands.

"I can't….they'll laugh."

"It'll be all right, trust me."

I looked at him, a half-smile on his handsome face, his eyes gentle and kind. He had some dirt smeared on his face and since he hadn't shaved, his cheeks were covered with dark stubble and standing so close, I could smell the strong tang of his sweat. Even in that condition, sweaty, smelly and dirty, Adam Cartwright was still the most beautiful, most desirable man I'd ever seen, had ever imagined seeing, had ever hoped of standing close to. If only we lived in the time of the Greeks where love between an older man and a younger one was not only accepted, but lauded and glorified in song, sculpture and poems, things would have been so easy. Adam would be the older protector and I, the beloved. I would learn all about the world from him, all about everything including love and loyalty and devotion. And we would pledge ourselves to one another for eternity.

Adam helped me to the buckboard and let down the back so I could crawl in. A few seconds later, the wagon jerked forward and then rolled ahead and I was eventually lulled into a light sleep. It wasn't long though that I heard voices and we stopped.

"We was comin; out to see iffen you needed help. Quttin' so soon?" Hoss.

"What's wrong with Virgil? He doesn't look too good." That was Joe's voice.

"Overheated. Thought I'd take him to the swimming spot, let him cool down before we return to the Ponderosa."

"Hey," Hoss said, "that sounds like fun. Been a long time since I've been swimmin'. Think I'll join you. It has been a hot one at that."

"I wasn't planning on swimming…" Adam said.

"Yeah, Hoss. That water's still icy cold – your balls'll crawl all the way up to you throat to get away!"

Adam and Hoss laughed along with Joe at his remark and even in my misery, I smiled.

"Oh, c'mon, Won't take long to get used to it, Joe, and 'sides, you won't need 'em till Saturday night, that is iffen you even get that lucky. You ain't yet in your life."

Adam slapped the reins and Hoss and Joe rode alongside the buckboard, arguing about Joe's burdensome virginity.

"I'm only 16 – give me time." Joe said.

"There's not enough time in the world," Adam replied and Hoss guffawed.

"Yeah, well…." Joe was at a loss. "Don't be surprised if I don't come home until late after the dance."

"And who do you have in your sights? Who's the 'lucky' girl."

"I'm bettin' it's Sissa Holcombe," Hoss said.

"Now why do you say that?" Adam asked. "Do you know something about Sissa that I don't?"

"Just that she's sweet on Joe. Ain't she?" I imagine Joe smiled or nodded. "Used to be sweet on you, Adam. 'Member? But since you been seeing Mary Mac, well, seems she's turned her eyes to this good-lookin' youngin'."

"I'm not that young," Joe protested, "and she's not that old. But I am that good-lookin'."

"And she ain't that pure neither," Hoss said and both he and Adam laughed.

"Yeah, well…" Joe said, "Saturday night hasn't come yet."

"Stay away from Sissa Holcomb," Adam said, his voice deep and stern. "She just wants to marry a Cartwright. Take my word for it."

"Maybe you know somethin' 'bout her, we don't know?" Hoss asked, but Adam said nothing more about Sissa Holcombe.

And they rode on discussing cattle and a possible silver mine. I mulled over their earlier conversation. _Mary Mac_. The name was familiar and yet it wasn't. _Mary Mac_. Mary Mackenzie! Of course. My father's housekeeper, Mrs. Chastain, had said Adam was sweet on Mary Mackenzie.

The buckboard stopped, with a "Whoa" from Adam. The light and heat had suddenly receded, and I looked up into the leaves of a sheltering tree.


	7. Chapter 7

**VII**

Adam released the tailgate. "C'mon, Virgil - cool off." He waited, patiently propping a foot on the hub of a back wheel and resting an elbow on his knee.

I went to move and my elbow hit something, jostling it. I looked; it was a rifle under a tarp. I don't know why it surprised me. Of course, Adam would bring a weapon. When I asked him, what would cause a fence to fall like the one we were repairing, Adam said heavy rain, snow, a bear – a passing cowboy practicing with a lasso or a homesteader who resented the fence. The others didn't faze me but when Adam mentioned the bear, I stopped and looked about. Adam had chuckled and said not to worry about bears with all the noise we were making. But if I saw one, call out. I did get the feeling though, that Adam was more concerned about cowboys and homesteaders than bears.

I slowly scooted down the length of the bed. Adam waited but he didn't offer his hand and I didn't reach for him. I managed to get to my feet, my legs still shaky, and looked at the lake. It was large and a deep blue but I knew it wasn't the fabled Lake Tahoe. This was the type of lake children would swim in, would fish from.

"This on the Ponderosa?" I asked as I walked, stumbled, toward the beckoning water.

"Yeah, it is. Go on. Cool yourself off," Adam said, walking ahead to the lake. I followed, yearning for the water.

Hoss and Joe were already sitting on the shore, pulling off their boots.

"Glad I'm downwind from you," Joe said and Hoss tossed a boot at him. Joe fended it off with his forearm and laughed.

I walked past them and kneeled by the water, putting my face in as if kissing it, and sucking a draught. It was cold and clean. I then splashed water over my neck; it wouldn't matter how wet I became as the dry air would drink it up and I'd soon be dry.

Adam sat on a nearby boulder and pulled off a boot. He paused. "Virge, you coming in?"

"No, no…" I said. "I think I'll just stay…" I splashed more water on myself and then went to sit under the tree by the wagon. I wasn't comfortable with stripping off my clothes, of exposing my gangly arms and legs to the Cartwright brothers. And Ambrose had often teased me about my "bird chest".

"Suit yourself," Adam said. Then, pulling off the other boot but still dressed, he walked into the water and swam out – still wearing everything but his hat and boots.

"What the hell you doin' swimmin' with your clothes on?" Hoss called out to him.

"Don't tell me Mary Mackenzie's took your balls and you don't want us to know!" Joe said. He and Hoss laughed but Adam leisurely swam, easily parting the water with his firm strokes.

Adam ducked under the water and then, after shaking back his hair, came to the shore. He dramatically shivered.

"Water's cold as an outhouse in winter," he said. Then he began to undress and toss his clothes over a tree branch. "I can't bear putting dirty clothes back on after I'm clean."

"I swear, Adam. No one's going to smell you but us. Besides, Hoss' stink overpowers everyone else."

Hoss had finally stripped himself bare and so had Adam. I sat under a tree, ignored, but that was to my liking. This way, I could observe and admire Adam. He was a beautiful man and I felt the warmth flooding my loins, my longing and desire nearly choking me. If only he wasn't fond of Mary Mackenzie.

"Hey, Adam," Hoss said. "You know, I've just 'bout had my fill of Shortshanks here." Hoss approached Joe menacingly, his lips a firm line, his brows drawn in mock anger.

"He has gotten a little too full of himself, hasn't he?" Adam added. "I think it's high time we show him what's what."

"Now look, you two…" Joe started to edge away toward the water, Hoss and Adam slowly approaching. Then, Adam rushed Joe and grabbed an arm and Hoss practically upended him, grabbing Joe by the ankles. With Adam holding both of Joe's arms and Hoss, his legs, the two brothers, both smiling and laughing, walked into the lake and the began swinging Joe as a man swings a hammock.

"Damn, Adam," Hoss said, obviously exaggerating, "You're right – this water is cold!"

"NO, NO, No," Joe yelled. "I'm sorry about any cracks I made! Honest, Hoss. And Adam, I know you're oldest and smartest and best- lookin'!"

"Too little, too late," Adam said and then counted off to three. At three, Hoss and Adam tossed Joe into an arc and he splashed into the water. Amid the laughter from his brothers, Joe surfaced, sputtering, threatening his brothers and swimming towards them, but it was easy for both Adam and Hoss to avoid him. I had to laugh at their light-heartedness – they could forget who they were and their adult responsibilities and just have fun. I realized what I had missed all those years as an only child. It's odd that 'only' rhymes with 'lonely' because suddenly I felt an ache that seemed to split my heart. I would have been happy to be Adam's brother, to have him tease me as he did Hoss and Joe, to have him put an arm about my neck and pull me to him the way he did Joe. I would be content to be loved like a brother.

For another half hour or so, the three brothers swam and floated and dunked one another under the water. Hoss, even though he lumbered on land, was surprisingly graceful in the water. Joe swam well, comfortably, but seemed to ache for the return to land and setting his two feet on solid ground. And Adam, he swam like an otter, quickly turning from back to stomach and back again, slipping through the water; it seemed more his element than land.

Finally, they left the water and collapsed on the grass, Hoss lying with his hands on his belly, Joe with his arms laying loosely by his side, and Adam with his arms folded under his head. They talked among themselves and I couldn't hear the words, but I once heard Adam's low, throaty laugh and Joe's giggle. I wondered if they were discussing me and my reluctance to undress and swim with them. But, I realized, they were more than likely discussing females – that constant subject among males – how to seduce them being the main subject or bragging about when one had.

Finally, the brothers rose and dressed. And what struck me the most, was that Adam was unselfconscious as he casually dressed; he appeared easy, comfortable being naked. And there was really no reason he shouldn't be. After all, Hoss was heavy and thick-legged. Joe, except for his nether parts and his head, was hairless. But Adam was well-built, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped and long-legged. And very much a man, endowed by nature – there was no doubt of that. I was doubly thankful I hadn't stripped; I would have no way to explain away my arousal. I wondered about Mary Mackenzie then. What had she seen of Adam? Was she as lucky as I was at that moment and seen the man in all his natural beauty?

"Think it's time for dinner?" Hoss asked looking at the sky. "That swimmin' done give me an appetite."

"Everything gives you an appetite – even eating gives you an appetite." Adam said, climbing up to the buckboard's seat and taking the reins. Joe giggled, his paint pony dancing about, eager to return to the barn. I clambered onto my seat, even putting on my hat again now that it was cooler.

"Can't help that none – the more I taste, the more I want."

"Hey, Adam," Joe called out. "That how you feel about Mary Mackenzie? The more you taste, the more you want?"

Adam pointed a finger Joe's way. "You just shut-up about Mary. That's just your inexperienced youth talking." Adam snapped the reins and turned the buckboard around and we headed for the Ponderosa but behind us, Joe called that he wouldn't be inexperienced for long. And I saw Adam smile.

The Ponderosa yard was filled with returning ranch hands, dirty, and weary. Some were unsaddling their horses or running brushes over the animals, cleaning off the dust and dirt. They would then put the horses in the corral where the animals drank from a filled trough and tore off hunks of hay from the loose bales by the barn. Other men were sluicing their necks and heads under the freestanding pump in the yard. I could smell cigarette smoke so I guessed a few were smoking their rolled cigarettes, either in or outside the bunkhouse. And it was cooling even more, the intensity of the day's heat fading with the gradually dropping sun – and it was only the end of May.

"Unhitch the buckboard, take the horse into the barn and rub her down. Then put her in the corral." Adam directed. He had pulled the wagon behind the barn. "We'll leave the supplies in the wagon, finish up tomorrow." But he reached over the side of the bed and grabbed the rifle, then headed to the house. And I watched him walk away. He was as slick as a snake.

I did as Adam told me, basically unbuckling whatever was buckled and looked as if it was an integral part of the harness and finally, the horse was free. I was sure I'd undone parts of the tracings that shouldn't be undone but I'd deal with that tomorrow. Adam would let me know. My back ached and I realized that like Hoss, I was also hungry. I could smell food - beef stew – wafting from the bunkhouse kitchen and my mouth began to water. I worked quickly and led the horse to the barn as Adam had instructed - _Don't face the horse while you lead – it'll balk. Turn your back and lead it._ In the barn, I found what looked like a horse brush, so I brushed it and the horse even seemed to like it. I found myself talking to her, telling her she was pretty. I surprised myself.

After I finished up and finally closed the corral gate, I headed to the bunkhouse. It seemed as if all the men were outside, lounging against the few pines that had survived the clearing of the land for the house so many years ago, or they were sitting on the steps or on the porch.

I made my way up the steps, men turning shoulders sideways to allow me by. I expected someone to trip me and send me flying but nothing happened. "How long until we eat?" I asked one of the men sitting on the long porch that ran the length of the building. It held wooden benches, some tables, and a few chairs. The man glanced at me and just shrugged his shoulders. I looked about but no one else appeared interested in me. And yet I felt my neck hairs prickle. I stepped into the bunkhouse. My nose was assaulted by the stench of horse manure.

I heard some light laughter from outside so I knew. I walked to my bunk and the smell became stronger. I tossed back the blanket and there was a large pile of horse droppings, straw clinging to it and undigested hay sticking out. Enough was enough.

"Who's the whoreson bastard who put the horse shit in my bunk?" I yelled, standing at the open door, my hands in fists. "Which one of you is responsible? Speak up you son of a bitch!"

One of the men, a large man, practically leaped over the others and up the steps to grab me by the shirtfront. Vaguely I remembered chastising him for cursing the night before when I said they were too loud. I then realized that had been a mistake as well as my insult to his mother. He swung me around and pulled back his fist. I didn't even have time to apologize, to take back the insult as his fist slammed into the side of my chin so hard my neck snapped. Compared to this man, Joe's punch was no more than a finger flick on a cheek.

I suppose everyone loves a fight. The men all circled and shouted, urging Luke – my opponent's name – to hit me again. They probably would have even bet money but this wasn't a game of chance, it was a sure thing who would win.

Luke tossed me here, slammed me there and I could no more defend myself against him than I could against a rogue bear in the wild. I decided he was going to kill me and he might have, except that Mr. Cartwright, Jett Burton, and Hoss intervened. I lay miserable in the dirt, my body screaming in pain, and before my left eye closed up, I saw Joe standing with the other men, his hands on his hips, and a slight grin on his face. He and I were the same age but it was obvious he was more of a man than I. And then he turned and walked away.

Hoss practically carried me in the Ponderosa ranch house and lay me in a bedroom off the dining area. Hop Sing came in, mumbling in Chinese. Then, "What happen? You hit him?"

"No, Hop Sing, I didn't hit 'im. Think you got somethin' to help 'im with those black eyes? Hell, they're swelling up even more right front of our eyes? And look at that jaw. I 'magine his ribs is black and blue as well.

"Boy, don't you ever tire of makin' people mad at you?"

I couldn't answer Hoss, just lay and moaned something.

"Arnica help with bruising. Chinese salve help too. You go Chinatown – get leech."

"But Hop Sing, now? I can smell dinner cookin'! Fried pork chops, right?"

"That right." Hop Sing with a note of pride in his voice.

Hoss sniffed. "And sweet yams – right?"

"Right! Big yams! Brown sugar on top with butter."

"And corn bread dressing?"

Hop Sing said, yes, and I could just imagine Hoss' face, like an unhappy hound dog banished to the back porch.

"Can't I wait until after dinner? I'll eat fast and I'll bring back two leeches."

I heard Adam's voice from behind them. "You send Hoss for leeches on an empty stomach and he's like as not to eat them on the way. I'll go. Anything else you need?"

A few minutes later, Hop Sing brought me some foul-smelling concoction and I longed for the honey-anise flavored laudanum I had swallowed for my headache. But this made me feel as if I had floated above my body and the pain that throbbed through its muscles and nerves and veins was below me, far away. Hop Sing lightly rubbed salve on my jaw and unbuttoning my shirt, I felt his gentle hands checking my ribs. And later that evening, Hop Sing applied the leeches to my swollen, bruised eyes, taking down the swelling. And then he gave me another glass – the sweet, sweet laudanum. And I slept.

For the rest of that week, I stayed in the ranch house, ate my meals with the Cartwrights and sat with them in the evening. By that Thursday, I felt well enough to do small chores. Ben set me to tasks and often checked on me to see if I needed help but gathering eggs and pulling weeds in Hop Sing's garden seemed easy enough to me and I wondered just how feckless he thought I was. But I did learn under his guidance, to milk a cow, pour the milk into the tin canister and then, drop a clean silver coin in to prevent spoilage. But that cow, she scared me even more than horses with her slobbering and burping and that tail like a stinging whip, always trying to swat flies but sometimes hitting me across the face or neck.

As for the Cartwrights, they were interesting. I observed the way they spoke to one another, the manner in which they teased each other – and Ben Cartwright wasn't excluded. The sons often took a shot at their father who suffered it with good grace. It was obvious that Joe was his father's darling and yet, there seemed no jealousy from either Hoss or Adam. Granted, they were men and Joe, still a boy, but it couldn't always have been like that. I couldn't understand their convoluted relationships but it was interesting to observe. Interesting. And I tried to imagine how a wife – any woman brought into this house of men, how she would fare. And my conclusion was, not well. Not well at all.


	8. Chapter 8

**VIII**

All that week, I had managed to scuttle to the house when the ranch hands starting coming in; I didn't want to face them. While I was so poorly – heaven help me, I'm talking like the people from these parts – Hoss had gathered my things from the bunkhouse and put them in the downstairs bedroom which remained mine; no longer did I have the guestroom upstairs, no longer was I a heartbeat from Adam.

That Friday – it was hard to believe that so much had happened in only one week - I looked out the window. Adam sat at one of the tables on their porch with a strongbox. The men lined up to get their pay, signing for it and then, smiling, headed out hooting. The men were paid in Ponderosa script and took off for Virginia City or, I learned, Carson City. Ponderosa script was accepted without question, in both. Finally, all was quiet, the hands had left, and I saw Adam leave the bunkhouse and return to the house, but only after talking to Jett Burton – what looked like a serious talk, Adam crossing his arms high on his chest, shifting his weight to one leg, one hip.

I dropped the curtain I had held aside, dropping on the side of the bed. I was at a loss as to what came next for me. Then a knock.

"Come in." I stood up.

Adam walked in, holding money. "Here." He held out the bills. "You have pay coming. $5.00. Make sure you sign for it. The book is on the downstairs desk. And you can saddle Maggie and head to your father's for the weekend. I imagine you have quite a bit to tell him." He raised one eyebrow.

"Yes, but he may not be too happy to hear I'm no cowboy. And I didn't really earn the money… I mean for two days, I stayed in bed and then, pulling weeds and feeding chickens…"

"We pay the men to do what they're assigned and even when they're sick or hurt, especially when it happens on the property." Adam held out the money and I took it. He hadn't been particularly friendly since the fight.

"Well, thank you then." I expected Adam to leave but he still stood there, his hands on his hips. I felt my bowels go to water. "Um…am I to return next week?"

"You have to bring back the horse no matter what you decide." He started then to leave.

"Wait." He stopped and faced me. "What I decide? I'm not fired? If I'm going to be honest, I want to stay but…staying in the bunkhouse… What happened to the man who beat me?" I had been wondering about that. I saw him pick up his pay along with the others.

"I think he had to soak his hand afterwards." Adam stated. "He skinned his knuckles on your teeth."

"Oh. He wasn't fired or docked any pay or…"

"Why should he be? You called his mother a bitch."

"But he put horse shit in my bunk."

"Yeah. I guess he was the one who did or he wouldn't have taken offense to the name-calling." Adam started to leave again

I stood open-mouthed. This was Ponderosa justice. This is what happened when no women were around to mitigate the climate of violence and men became crude and cruel. I wanted to be back in Boston, my head resting on my grandmother's lap, her fingers lightly stroking my hair. And Ambrose would understand my feelings, would hold me next to him and croon his sympathy as he ran his fingertips across my back. But I was getting nothing from Adam.

Adam stopped again and raised a finger. "One thing, my father wants you to stay here, not in the bunkhouse, but if you ever want to be able to show your face around the Ponderosa or Virginia City again, show up at the Church social tonight. Show that you're not afraid or ashamed. Trust me, everyone, myself included, has had their ass kicked by a better man. The only problem you have is that almost everyone around here is a better man – at least as far as fighting goes."

I was stunned. No one had ever talked to me that way, so honestly and with a total lack of guile. "And don't wear any of that fancy frippery you wore when we met. Cowboys consider themselves dressed up when they're wearing a clean shirt and brushed the mud and shit off their boots. I'll introduce you to some young girls who'll be happy to dance with you, that is, if you can dance."

"I can dance," I mumbled.

"Good. At least the girls will like you. Oh, and your father'll know which church. See you Saturday night."

Adam left and I looked out my window again. It would soon be dark and I needed to leave for my father's house. I didn't see as I had much choice in the matter.

~ 0 ~

I almost became lost on the trip to Virginia City, took the wrong road at a fork but quickly turned back and Maggie and I finally made it to my father's only about a half hour after dark. Thankfully. No bear had risen up in the road.

Mrs. Chastain had held supper so my father was cross that I was so long in arriving. He asked me about my bruised cheekbones and jaw – Hop Sing's arnica tea had helped and the bruises were fading, yellow about the edges. My ribs though still had bluish bruises where fists had landed.

"Oh, my dear child," Mrs. Chastain had said when she saw me. "You darling boy, what in the world happened to you?"

"He was in a fight – probably his own fault – your grandparents' fault, molly-coddling you. But at least you're learning about the men in these parts. They defend with their fists. Now, let's eat."

Mrs. Chastain gave me a bar of lye soap and told me to scrub my hands and to be quick about it as my father was in a foul mood, he always was when his meals weren't on schedule. At dinner, sitting with an Irish lace table and sparkling crystal and polished silverware, we made small talk as we ate, my father asking questions about the Ponderosa, the Cartwrights. I told him very little as I sensed he was fishing for gossip. But then, as I knew he would, he asked about the bunkhouse. I told him I was staying in the ranch house and he sat back, his mouth pursed.

"So, you couldn't make it in the bunkhouse, could you? Not man enough. You and your head full of books and art and such nonsense that serves no man out here. It's time you grew up! You're not in Boston with your namby-pamby grandmother or your snooty school!"

"My grandmother…" My throat closed with emotion. How dare he say such things about her? I wanted to defend my grandmother but knew it would do no good. Although this was the first time I had really been with my father except for his short visits from time to time, I knew from the curtness of his letters, the type of man he wanted to appear to be but wasn't. Any of the ranch hands could make short work of him – I might even be able to take on my father. And he had the temerity to insult me over my education which, thanks to him, had been interrupted.

"Adam Cartwright is college educated and…"

He shot a finger at me. "You are not Adam Cartwright! When you can use your fists as he does, ride and rope and take control of other men, then you can tell me about the similarities between you and him. In the meantime, just stay quiet on the matter!"

He picked up his coffee cup and glancing inside, called out, "Polly!" He suddenly realized he had used what must be Mrs. Chastain's first name. But she quickly came in, obviously listening at the portieres. "Um, Mrs. Chastain, may I have more coffee?"

"Oh, of course, sir." She returned to the kitchen and brought back a pot of coffee and poured my father more. "More for you, sir?" she asked me.

"No, no, thank you."

"Well," she said, smiling, "I made rum tarts for dessert. I think you'll like them. But you'll need more milk to wash them down." And she smiled kindly. My father glowered.

That night in my room, after a much-needed bath, I sat at the desk in my robe, writing a letter to my grandmother. I had asked for paper and a pen. My father snorted. "There's writing paper in the desk in your room and a pen, ink, blotting paper – everything you could need. I knew you'd want to write your grandmother." But more than my grandmother, I wanted to write Ambrose. I had promised…

A light knock. "Come in." I expected to see my father – I don't know why - but it was Mrs. Chastain with a white mug.

"Sorry to bother you, sir…"

"Call me Virgil…please. I'm only 16."

"All right, I will. If my son had lived, he'd be about your age."

"I'm so sorry. When did he pass?"

"Oh, he lived less than a month – blond hair like yours and most as pretty as you must have been. But so much for that. Now, I brought you a nice cup of hot cocoa. It's calming to the soul and will help you get a good rest." She sat the mug beside me on the desk. "You can sip while you write." She placed a motherly hand on my shoulder. "Now, good night, Virgil. My room is at the end of the hall on your side. If you find you need anything, just knock. I'm a heavy sleeper so knock more than once. Good night."

"Good night…oh, Mrs. Chastain?"

"Yes, my dear." She looked at me expectantly, ready to do my bidding.

"I plan on going to the church dance tomorrow…"

She clapped her hands together. "That's wonderful. You should make more friends other than that cowboy riff-raff that works at the Ponderosa. I'll brush your suit jacket and shine your shoes…"

"Yes, well, I won't need all that but what I wanted to know…" I was glad the light was low as I was afraid my eager face might give away my avid interest. "Adam said he would introduce me to some girls and to Mary Mackenzie. I think you mentioned her already. Is she actually his girl? I mean, do you think she's the one I'm supposed to squire about?"

Mrs. Chastain left the door and sat on the side of my bed. Her eyes shone with the chance of gossiping. I don't know anyone, man or woman, who doesn't like to reveal their secret knowledge of others.

"She most definitely is his girl. Let me tell you, I've been here since there was nothing standing but a general store, a saloon and a small house of…ill repute. There were a few of us who had bitty houses about and Mr. Chastain was eking out a living panning gold. I still remember when Ben Cartwright and his two eldest sons arrived to buy supplies for the first time. He was in the general store with a huge baby with the most darling face, the sweetest smile and the bluest eyes. And also with him was the most serious-looking boy I ever saw but handsome even then. Handsome! So, I know just about everyone's history here in Virginia City.

"Well, I was working for your father – Mr. Chastain had passed – his heart gave out one day, may he rest in God's arms - when Adam Cartwright was a young buck, squiring first one girl about, then another. Living so far out on a ranch, he didn't have much chance to really court any girl but Sundays – oh law – the girls would practically scratch out each other's' eyes like cats in a sack to be the one to sit with him during services.

"Now, Mary Mackenzie, who was Mary Bolton back then, wasn't and still isn't the prettiest girl but she had something. Maybe she had a smell, you know like animals do when they come into season – I mean there's no other reason that I can think of for her suddenly turning his head – because one day…well, it was almost as if Adam had been enchanted! Mary aimed herself at him and that was it. From then on, it was Adam and Mary, Mary and Adam; she was always on his arm. Oh, he'd still smile at the other girls, flash those white teeth of his and be gentlemanly and polite, but Mary, well, somehow, she defended what's hers, or thought was hers. The other girls finally knew they had met their match in Mary and from then on, they would just look balefully at Mary but not dare approach Adam. And Mary would be saucy, tossing her head and coyly flirting with Adam in front of God and everyone. I thought at the time she was a little hussy – and I still do – of a sorts. And Ben was at wits' end.

"Mr. Bolton, he wasn't too happy either about his daughter and her behavior, although his daughter marrying a Cartwright would have been a good match – he was only a clerk at the bank – your father was already the manager by then, but once, and there may have been more times but this is the only one your father mentioned to me, Mr. Bolton asked for advice."

Mrs. Chastain leaned forward and her voice dropped. "Now I'm telling you this in confidence – keep it close – Mr. Bolton asked what he should do about Adam bringing his daughter home past dark. He said she was mussed, her clothes in disarray. He confronted Mary before she went upstairs to tell her mother goodnight – her mother was an invalid and soon after, met her maker, may she rest in God's arms. When I visited her – I often did, taking her sweets and just sitting and chatting, she told me about that night. It seems Mary broke down crying in her father's arms. She swore nothing untoward had happened, although her mother and father both had their doubts, and that she loved Adam but that night he had told her that in two months – I think it was two months – maybe three - he was leaving for back east to university. Well, Mary wanted nothing more but to marry him and Adam, he wanted an education and had his mind set on college – everyone knew that. No one else's child in these parts had been to college or even considered it – out here, it's seen as a waste of money. Anything worth knowing can be learned through experience. But Adam was different – so smart. And that's what worried the Boltons, that Mary was using her…'charms', if you know what it is I mean, to force Adam to marry her before he left. Apparently, Mary believed Adam would stay if he was married and had a wife and child."

"I can understand her logic," I said, encouraging Mrs. Chastain. After all, I thought, were I a woman and had the wiles to force Adam to stay with me, I would surely do the same thing as Mary Mackenzie – open my legs and then trap him between my thighs; let him buck all he wanted, he wouldn't get loose. I was beginning to understand my crafty rival.

"Mary's parents, they worried, since she was so distraught over Adam leaving, that Mary would come up with child before there was even a wedding, and so Mr. Bolton – now I have this from a very good source – visited the Ponderosa and asked both Ben and Adam what were his intentions. Apparently, Adam stated his intentions were to go to college back east and get an education – without the burden of a wife.

"Well, when Mary heard what Adam told her father, she was heartbroken; her father forbade her to ever see Adam ever again, and, like I said, I have it from a good source that Mary became so hysterical she threw herself down the stairs of her father's house and almost broke her neck. By the time the doctor arrived, it's said young Mary was bleeding, and not from her head; rumor was she had miscarried of a child – Adam's child. Now whether that's true or not doesn't alter the rest of the story. Once Adam heard about Mary's accident, he rushed to see her, but her father kept him away with a shotgun and said he'd blow a hole right through him if Adam ever dared touch his daughter again.

"It was such a scandal – most everyone was talking about poor Mary Bolton and how she had been dishonored by that cad, Adam. It was so scandalous – everyone was gossiping about it and Ben's two younger sons were asking questions as well. Anyway, Ben sent Adam away to college as had been planned, only a few weeks earlier.

"As for Mary, she married a man by the name of Grady Mackenzie who worked for a mining company. He was here to scout the local mines and offer to buy those he considered profitable. Mary and he fell in love, or so the story went, and before his company transferred him to Pennsylvania, he and Mary wed. Then, a few months ago, she returned to Virginia City and her elderly father. And she wore all black – she was a recent widow – very recent and from what your father told me, a wealthy widow with quite a bit of money to deposit. No sooner was Mary back than she shed the black mourning clothing and smiling as if she was a young girl again, she took up with Adam and from what I understand, he might soon be askin' her to be Mrs. Cartwright. It's about time one of the Cartwrights gets married."

My heart had thumped through the history of Mary Mackenzie and Adam, I tried to sift rumor from truth but as my grandmother used to say, 'There's no smoke, without fire.'

I smiled. "Well, it sounds as if they are in love. I wish them well." And I knew I was lying through my teeth. I wanted to face Mary Mackenzie and judge their _love_ for myself. "I hope I get to meet her."

"Oh, I'm sure you will but look how I've talked on – and it's getting so late" Goodnight and sleep well!"

Mrs. Chastain left and I sat for a few moments more at the desk. Then I slid the half-written letter back in the drawer. I'd finish it tomorrow, in the morning, and ask my father to post it. Maybe I'd even write Ambrose. I picked up the cup of cocoa and sipped the dark, rich drink. Tonight, I would need help sleeping.


	9. Chapter 9

**Thanks to all who left reviews/comments on Chp VIII. I came home from yoga, did a quick proofread (and probably still missed something!) and now I have to go out again. Sorry I won't have time to respond to everyone's Chap VIII comments, but I wanted to post this chapter. I hope whoever is reading enjoys it. Merci.**

 **IX**

In the morning, I walked to the mercantile and bought myself a blue shirt and a string tie. Mrs. Chastain had washed my dirty clothes and hung them on the line but I bought a nicer pair of pants than my work dungarees but not as fancy as my dress clothes – Adam's advice stayed with me.

The afternoon seemed to drag. I tried to finish the letter to my grandmother but I was too restless; I couldn't even consider writing Ambrose but I think that was because I wouldn't know what to write. Should I tell him about Adam? Tell him what? That I longed for a beautiful man, ached to feel his strong hands on me? No, that wouldn't do. I could write, 'Dear Ambrose, I hope this finds you well…' but that would be cruel, to treat him as a mere acquaintance.

And then it seemed all too short a time before the dance at 8:00. Eight o'clock. In Boston, we would just be sitting down to dinner at 8:00 and I would be dressed – my grandmother as well. That was one of the glaring differences – the Cartwrights never dressed for dinner. They sat at table in their shirtsleeves and the same dusty, sweat-imbued dungarees they had worn that whole day while working. I suppose it was a concession to civilization that they washed their hands before eating. And they put their elbows on the table.

Once dressed, I admired myself in the mirror; surely Adam would notice. I knew I was a handsome boy – I want to say 'man' but I know that at 16, I might be considered a man only if I could handle the full duties of a man or had a wife. But I would rather be a "boy" than suffer through all that! The blue shirt accentuated my eyes – blue-gray – and my blond curls. I knew that soon I should cut my hair but there were quite a few ranch hands who had hair almost to their shoulders so I didn't stand out for that reason. Nevertheless, I also recognized that I had a certain feminine beauty and had therefore been the target of one of my schoolmasters. But I shunned him; let him find someone else to cater to his whims. And his breath always stank.

I had asked Mrs. Chastain if I should wear my hat. Hoss had shown me how to curl the brim, train it to roll up the way I preferred to make it mine and it was flattering, especially when I pulled the front down a bit. But Mrs. Chastain informed me that the men don't wear their hats unless perhaps, they come a great distance such as the Cartwrights. They would wear their hats in case it rained on their ride home. And if I did wear it, I would have to hang it one of the pegs with the other hats and gun belts. It might mistakenly – or intentionally – be taken; it was a nice Stetson.

I waited in my room until 8:30. I didn't want to show any too earlier; that would smack of desperation. And I was nervous as well, not wanting to go until Adam was there. Finally, my stomach roiling with anxiety, I went downstairs. My father was reading some banking quarterly issue and smoking a cigar. He didn't notice me so I "harrumphed." He looked up.

"Going to the dance, I see."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, have a nice time. Do you know which church?"

"Yes. Mrs. Chastain told me – gave me directions."

"Directions," he scoffed. "Go to main street and walk for three blocks. The common room is where they hold the dances. Have a nice time but don't waste any on a worthless girl. More than likely, there'll be some young ladies there whose fathers are share-holders, big depositors or just big landholders. Land about here is like gold anyway."

"Yes – I'll look for one dripping in jewels." He shot me a look but I only smiled. "Goodnight, Father."

Once I was outside, I could her faint music and the further I walked, the louder it became until I saw the church, every window glowing with light. Chinese lanterns hung outside a side entrance and people milled about in the yard, talking, laughing, joining up, and with relief, I recognized no one. But I did notice the Cartwright horses tethered among the others – Little Joe's horse was hard to miss.

A few girls smiled at me and two, about 14 or so, watched me, mouths gaping, and then holding each other's arms, giggled to one another, their eyes probably following me as I walked inside. I was relieved to see that I was dressed appropriately. Some couples were dancing, women and girls sat about the sides of the large room and a small group of musicians were at one end. A long table was rife with small pastries of all sorts. Three or four crystal punch bowls and a slew of cups were at another and was manned by a woman at each bowl which was constantly being refilled like some mythological 'bowl of plenty'. The women poured, nodded and smiled and then, once the empty cups were placed down, another woman would spirit them away to the back where I assume they were washed, dried and returned. I looked about. Over in the corner were two Ponderosa hands but they were engaged chatting with two women. Hopefully, the worst would be they ignored me.

At the far side of the room, I saw Adam and a woman in soft pink - Mary Mackenzie, I was sure. They conversed as if they were the only two people in the room and my heart fell. I wanted to meet the famed Mary but felt I couldn't approach them - their stance wasn't inviting of interruptions. But then Adam glanced up, saw me, and beckoned. Of course, I would go to him. I approached, feeling the familiar warmth of attraction. Adam smiled as I came closer and in my peripheral vision. I noticed Mary watching me, glancing up at Adam and then back to me. And when I was close enough, I turned to her. She stared at me and her eyes glittered like black obsidian. And they were just as hard and just as cold.

Adam put out his hand and we shook and I was dazzled anew. The sconces on the wall served only as his spotlight. His black hair glistened and the white starched shirt he wore only emphasized his swarthy skin and the grayish sheen of his shaved cheeks. His black string tie gave him an air of insouciance as if he hadn't tried – the crisp shirt collar framing his handsome face.

"Mary, this is Virgil Weems – Banker Weems son. I told you about him, remember? I asked you to find some girls for him since he's so new?" Adam had placed an arm about her waist, gazing at her profile, but Mary didn't look up to him, only at me, staring evenly, her smile, frozen.

"Yes, I remember." Her voice seemed strained, as if she was forcing the words out and they scraped at her throat.

"And, Virgil, this is Mrs. Mackenzie – Mary."

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Mackenzie." I gave a slight bow. "My condolences on the recent loss of your husband – such a shame. Just looking at you, no one would know you were still grieving."

I thought I saw a smile play about Adam's mouth. Perhaps he had already mentioned her early desertion of bereavement as well, said that it was inappropriate for her to shed the black attire so quickly and for him to begin courting her anew. Not that I think Adam would particularly care about society's rules, but I could see his father attempting to convince his son how inappropriate it all was.

"You know," I continued, "in ancient Greece, when a woman's husband died, she sheared all her hair and left it on the grave – then, since her hair was so short, all who saw her knew she had suffered a great loss and was broken-hearted. Much more humane than the suttee, the Hindi practice of the widow throwing herself on her husband's funeral pyre and burning along with him – now that is the ultimate marital sacrifice and proof of devotion. And all we ask of women today is that they wear black, avoid social occasions, and veil their faces in public for a year or two. We're fortunate that you don't abide by those customs or we would be robbed of seeing your lovely face."

Mary's mouth was firm. She looked up at Adam. "Well?" she asked him. My heart started thumping. What if Adam pulled me outside and told me to leave and to never show my face again. And that I was fired from the Ponderosa.

"Well, what? Even if you shaved your head, you'd still be the loveliest woman here." Adam grinned down at her as if he was enjoying her discomfiture.

"You aren't going to demand an apology from him?"

"An apology? For what?"

"For his insult?"

"What?" I appeared stunned. Adam looked at me as if he hadn't expected me to speak. "I insulted you? If I did, it was unintentional, I assure you! I'm so sorry – I certainly apologize for anything untoward I may have said."

"As if you don't know. You implied that I…" Suddenly, Mary's expression changed; she smiled and softened her gaze before she looked at Adam. "I suppose I was wrong." She smiled at me – her gaze was chilling. "My continuing grief over my husband's passing apparently skewered my perception." She coyly turned her face up to Adam again. "I told Myra Rivers that there was a new ranch hand on the Ponderosa and she's eager to meet a new swain – I didn't yet tell her his name, just for the surprise." Mary turned her focus to me. "But before I introduce you to Myra, why don't we dance. I need to know if I should inform her to step lightly to avoid your feet on hers."

"Of course," I said, smiling and offering her my arm. I looked back at Adam; he seemed puzzled. Nevertheless, I pulled Mary into my arms and we turned around on the floor. I was glad it was a quick waltz and not a square dance; I would look a fool as I stumbled over the confusing calls.

Mary, although I was sure she could easily follow any man's lead, forced us to the outer rim of the dancers. Her hand in mine was firm and her face bore a frozen smile.

"You don't fool me," she said through her teeth. "I saw the way you looked at him."

I almost stopped dancing, my legs feeling weak and my feet like lead. Mary was on to me.

"What? I…"

"You must take me for a fool…" Mary stopped dancing but no longer serene; Adam, from across the social hall, was watching us. "Let's go outside." She smiled up at me and took my arm and we walked out and down the stairs into the church yard. With her arm through mine and nodding at others who smiled as they passed us, Mary led me around the corner. Then her smile and hand dropped.

"He's mine. Adam is mine and you need to stay away from him."

"I don't know what you mean? And as for staying away, I'm living in the ranch house with Adam and his family – not in the bunkhouse."

"The house?" That information gave her pause. She took a deep breath. "You know very well what I mean. The way you look at Adam! I know that look - men have looked at me that way – Adam looks at me that way – with hunger. And my desire for him is probably all over my face when I see him. I don't apologize for it – I've waited long enough for him."

I decided to drop my pretense; it didn't serve any purpose. "Aren't you lucky then that your husband so conveniently died and Adam wasn't yet married. Are you afraid that Adam might prefer me over you? After all, only a man knows what pleasures another man."

Mary slapped me. I smiled.

"I know what pleases him. Do you think I'm some stupid little girl who safeguarded her virginity for marriage?"

"You married someone else. Why? Did Adam not love you enough? If he did, why would he leave for college, right? Did he not rush to steal you away from your husband, to shoot the man in a duel and win your heart? Is that what you wanted to happen, hoped would happen?"

Mary stared at me, considering, her breast heaving with fury. I'm sure she was wondering just what she should say next, what tactic would work with me. But I wondered why she was so worried about me. After all, I wasn't another pretty girl wearing a low-cut dress and tossing my head at Adam to get his attention. Why was I a threat if she was secure?

"I know your type," she hissed. "You see, my husband was one like you only I didn't know it when we married – I don't think he even did. I recognize in you the same things I saw in him once I became aware of his … preference. I see the look of lust in your eyes but I don't see it returned in Adam's – and hope I never do. But you hope to see it. You look at him with that … I can't describe it."

"I'm prettier than you, you know," I said, smiling. "And I can't swell with a child. How unfortunate you women are in that regard. I know what you're afraid of – that Adam will love me, lay with me, stroke my face and whisper how beautiful I am, and all the while, married to you. You won't know if I've pleased him with my mouth or my hands before he goes to your bed. That's what it is, isn't it, Mary?"

We stared at each other, arch-rivals sizing up each other. I imagine she was looking at me more closely, studying my face. I was younger than she, my face unlined. My hair was golden, unlike her brown, and fell in soft waves and curls. My neck was longer and far more elegant than hers. Mary, although the same age as Adam, would probably, in a few more years, ten at the most, look older than Adam. This wilderness wasn't kind to women; it dried them up the way the sun does juicy plums to make prunes. Their husbands filled their bellies with children and the wife lost a tooth with each child and grew thick about the middle and broad in the hips. But that would never happen to me. Mary knew that.

"My husband's lover shot him," she said. "Why don't you do the same to yourself." Then Mary turned and walked away but I had noticed her shaking – she hadn't been able to conceal it no matter how much she tried. I smiled to myself. I had won. Mary was afraid – very afraid and I wondered what she would tell Adam. I hoped she told him about me – or what she suspected – and she could even relate our conversation. Then Adam would know about me and how I felt, that I loved him and was willing to drop to my knees before him. And then, once he knew about me, I would know as well, about him.


	10. Chapter 10

**X**

My grandmother once told me that people with proper upbringing do not discuss personal issues with anyone other than close family – and not even then! Although I am breaking all the rules of upper crust society, I feel compelled to share with you what next happened. I know you'll understand my position in this terrible drama. Of all those involved, I am, as I'm certain you'll agree, the most deserving of sympathy and understanding.

I stood outside after Mary had left me. I had initially felt confident but suddenly, I was afraid and wanted to run home, go to my room and wait for the clap of thunder from Zeus on high! How dare I love Aphrodite's Adonaïs and vie for him?

I would tell my father that I had a head ache and was therefore, forced to leave the dance early – if he was still awake – and then use it to avoid church in the morning. I couldn't face Adam if Mary had lied about me. Yes, perhaps Mary, in her caution, told Adam I flirted with her, tried to kiss her and to steal her away from him. Mary might just do that.

You see, I could tell Mary was conniving so I applied logic. If Mary was sure of Adam, knew that the idea of a beautiful boy wouldn't appeal to him, that her full breasts and wide-hips drew him, she would tell Adam that I desired him and warn that he should dodge me. That knowledge would make Adam uncomfortable and he would avoid me for the duration of my time on the Ponderosa – just two months. For those months, I would be given the worst jobs, and if I continued to stay in the house, I would be ignored and perhaps, even relegated to the bunkhouse again in the hopes I would leave. Adam would also avoid me in Virginia City and eventually, so would his family after he told them. My reputation would be ruined in Virginia City and perhaps, by association, my father's. And Little Joe would giggle every time he saw me. That would be the worst! That giggling!

You may agree with Mary, truly believe that Adam, being the type of man he is, would shun me. But in Ancient Greece – and people are people through the ages – full-lipped men with chiseled cheeks, broad shoulders and tempting narrow hips, were desirable. And Greek heroes were always, "xanthos," golden or tawny – whether in hair or skin. I was golden-haired, true, but Adam's skin was gold-tinged from the sun. Also, Adam fit the idea of male perfection and I can't believe that as beautiful as he is, he wasn't often the target of lesser mortals – both men and women who wanted to touch him, kiss him and lie with him. And he might still have the taste in his mouth of a male partner, still remember the gut-shaking sensations.

And, considering all this, if Mary wasn't sure of Adam, in order to make him turn against me just on principle, she would say I grabbed her, tried to kiss her, derided him as not much of a man and purported I was the better of the two of us and could better please her – raise her to ecstatic heights. Well, Mary might not be as poetic, but she could say something along that line. And then Adam might even punch me in the nose or worse.

I took a deep breath and decided I would go back inside. On the far side of the yard, Little Joe was standing under an oak tree with a girl, pressing her against the trunk and I'm sure, attempting to seduce her. But she was giggling and feigning attempts to get away but yet allowing him to kiss her. Others were holding hands as they strolled under the stars and couples seemed everywhere, sitting on the porch, in wooden chairs set out under the Chinese lanterns – everywhere. And as I approached the open double doors of the social hall, Adam came toward me with a young lady on his arm with Mary following behind, watching.

"There you are, Virgil," Adam said, smiling. I sighed in relief; Mary hadn't yet worked her venom. "This is Miss Myra Rivers. Myra, Virgil Weems."

I smiled at her. She was pretty enough, about 15, I'd say, with strawberry-blonde curls about her shoulders, blue eyes, and wearing a lacy high-necked blue and white checked dress. She looked like a schoolgirl.

"How do you do, Myra?" I said, taking her proffered hand while Mary watched, her eyes, narrow, glittering in the lights. "I'm happy to meet you." Myra giggled and blushed.

"You are as handsome as Mary said!"

I looked at her and a small smile played about Mary's mouth. "So, it's Mary I have to thank."

"And Adam! He told me about your black eye and such. How brave you are to have stood up for yourself in front of all those men!"

I glanced at Adam and he shrugged, then smiled. "Why don't you two dance? The night's still young and there's a full moon!" He grinned and Mary stepped up and slipped her arm through his.

"Let's go dance as well," Mary said, smiling up at Adam and then glancing back at me – just once – the Gorgon gaze as if she hoped it would turn me to stone.

Myra and I danced and I, with an amused smile, listened to her chatter about herself and the others. Oh, Myra was just a silly girl but dancing with her, I could watch Adam and Mary dance. Adam was light on his feet and appeared to enjoy dancing. Mary, she smiled and let herself be moved about but she was a bit clumsier. And during a slow waltz, I watched as she pressed herself against him. I'm certain she was attempting to arouse him and she must have succeeded because next I saw, they were heading for the door, pausing just to pickup Adam's hat and gun belt and Mary's wrap. And Mary searched the dancers, caught my eye, and smiled – as my grandmother would say, "like the cat who ate the canary."

I left soon after, walking Myra home. At her door, she lingered.

"I'm glad I met you tonight. I'll thank Mary and Adam tomorrow – in church. Will you be there, Virgil?"

"Are you good friends with Mary?" I asked.

"Not really – she's so much older – almost 30 and been married and all. Everyone expects her and Adam to marry soon. We're waiting for the banns to be read. Apparently, they were quite the item years ago when I was just a small child. Now, about church…"

I promised Myra I would sit with her the following morning. Really, what could it hurt?

"And Virgil, perhaps you'll come to supper? I'm sure, since your father and mine are friends, that my parents would love to have you!'

"I can let you know tomorrow; I think my father may have planned something for us to do together." A white lie; I didn't think that at all. But Myra looked so disappointed. I bent down and kissed her. It wasn't unpleasant but the meeting of our lips didn't inspire any emotion – not even disgust and that was pleasant enough in itself. Sweet Myra beamed and then went inside.

I slowly walked home, ruminating over the evening. The thought that haunted me was of Adam and Mary locked in an embrace, their bodies slick with sweat and Mary, her back arched while in the throes of ecstasy while Adam rode her. The bitch.

I stopped in the outhouse, then went to the front door and opened it, knowing I was home earlier than expected. One lamp burned in the parlor and I think it was for me. I turned down the wick and then slowly, my eyes adjusting to the new dark, made my way up the stairs. At the turn into the hall, I paused as I heard a noise. At the end of the hall, on my side, a door opened, light escaping, and my father came out, holding his robe together, his chest bare. I stepped back into the greatest darkness, just peeking, and saw my father then go into his bedroom and shut the door. He had been with Mrs. Chastain. And I didn't know what to think. My father and Mrs. Chastain locked together in passion. Ridiculous. Absurd. Disgusting. Sex was only for the young and beautiful!

I quietly went to my room and softly closed the door behind me. I quickly undressed and slipped between the cool sheets. My head was spinning. So much had happened – so many new things had occurred. I lay awake for what must have been hours but finally, I must have fallen asleep because next I knew, the sun was edging in my window and Mrs. Chastain was knocking on my door and telling me breakfast was ready – pancakes - and to dress for church.

Church – Myra Rivers – Mary Mackenzie – and hopefully, Adam. But Mary held him fast in her harpy's talons, I was sure, especially after last night. But Adam hadn't yet, to my knowledge, asked Mary to wed him. I quickly shaved although I could go days without it but it always made me feel older. Then I dressed in not-my-best clothing, but far nicer than last night. And a splash of Bay Rum.

Mrs. Chastain scurried about, already dressed for church, the fabric straining a bit over her large bosom. She poured the coffee and fussed over me while my father staidly ate. I wondered what mornings were like when she and my father were alone. Did he pinch her plump cheeks and pat her ample buttocks, pull her on his lap and chuck her under her double chins? Did she call him "Edward" or "Eddie" or even worse, "darling sweetheart"? Already, my father had slipped once and called her "Polly". Well, I couldn't be bothered with something as common as my father sleeping with his housekeeper. Besides, it was she who, in my opinion, was getting the worse of the deal even if she was paid and had a place to live – she had to put up with him slobbering over her. Well, I didn't want to consider them anymore.

"I met the loveliest girl last night," I said as I cut through my stack of pancakes. Mrs. Chastain was undeniably a good cook; the pancakes were light and fluffy and soaked up the melted butter and syrup – food fit for the gods.

"Oh, really," my father said, He put down his coffee cup and waited while I chewed.

"Yes. Myra Rivers."

"Oh, Myra!" He smiled. "Yes, so pretty with her blonde hair and blue eyes. Her father and I are friends – known each other for years. He owns 25 acres and leases them out to a homesteader and takes a part of the profits. I'm glad you've met some fine people."

"I promised I'd sit with her at church – share the hymnal." I am ashamed to say that I enjoyed toying with my father. Here he was, excited that I may find a girl to eventually marry, a girl from a family of standing and yet, I knew that would never happen. I would never do to someone what Mary's husband had done to her. That had been cruel of him. Mary said he didn't know what he preferred himself, but, well, he obviously hadn't met Adam. Looking at Adam and feeling that visceral reaction, Grady Mackenzie would have known.

"That's fine….fine. As soon as you're finished, we'll all leave. As you know, it's only a short walk."

"I take it Mrs. Chastain will come with us."

"What? Oh….yes. Yes." And my father went back to his food.

My father told me on the walk to church, that he and Mrs. Chastain always sat in the 3rd row – always. It wasn't too prominent but it was close enough to the front where he couldn't fall asleep. I think that was meant to be a joke but with my father – being generally humorless – it was hard to know.

"Doesn't the preacher instill the fear of God? I would think the idea of eternal damnation alone would keep you alert, Father. But he probably aims his speech at fornicators."

"You're becoming a bit impertinent, young man," he said sternly. "I am your father and you will keep your cynicism to yourself. You've been around Adam Cartwright too much and picked up his ways - he's always making sardonic remarks meant to be funny. Not an admirable trait. Ben should have slapped it out of him early on."

My father stepped up his pace self-importantly, and Mrs. Chastain looked across him at me, raising her brows cautioning me. If she was aware my father was such a pompous ass, how could she allow him on top if her? I would never understand women.

I found Myra – or she found me. I stood in the back of the church as other denizens filed past me to the various pews. I was searching for Adam. And with him, more than likely, Mary. But I couldn't find Adam although the other three Cartwrights sat in front. Prominent citizens in a prominent place, but Joe kept looking about, for young ladies, I'm sure. Our eyes met and Joe nodded, then moved on. But Myra saw me and stood up, smiling and waved me over.

"Oh, Virgil," she said, "I saved you a place." She reached out for me as I made my way down the small space. "This is my father, Mr. Rivers."

"Hello. Sir. Nice to meet you," We shook hands and I sat and he blathered about knowing my father and how happy he was that Myra had finally met a nice young man who had a good future ahead of him. I smiled and commented with whatever seemed appropriate. And then I saw Adam and Mary move into the aisle in front and Mary had her arm firmly through his, even clasping it with her other hand as if she feared he was going to escape.

Adam smiled, said hello to us all and Mary graciously nodded and said good morning and then they sat. And under the pretense of straightening her dress jacket, glanced back at me. And grinned.


	11. Chapter 11

**Thanks to all of you who read and supported this off-kilter story. Realize that I like the OC, very much, and my intent is to humanize him with both good and bad qualities, not to make fun of him. With that in mind, I reworked this chapter so many times that if I spent much more time on it, I would delete it and start it over. I'm sure that in a few days, if I look at it, I'll see that something would read easier rephrased or that a piece of dialogue is awkward, but this is the last chapter of this story - as it is - good, bad or indifferent.**

 **And if I can come up with another plot sometime, I'll write again as long as I can scour up some readers.**

 **XI**

There's no point in boring you with the pedestrian details about dinner at the Rivers' house or the conversation – why should both of us have to suffer? Mrs. Rivers hadn't been in church that morning – felt under the weather, she said – but was much better now, thank you very much for asking. A nice-looking woman, a bit thin and weary-looking though. Later, as Myra and I sat on the front porch – and yes, I kissed her once again as she seemed to expect it - she told me that her two brothers had both died as children. Seems that with Myra's birth, something unhealthy happened to her mother's womb – or some such thing that I didn't want to hear – and her mother could no longer bear children and often suffered great pain in her gut and took to her bed. See - women and children and childbirth – so messy. But in a way, I suppose females deserve sympathy as life is so difficult for them. Nevertheless, as for love, where the heart is concerned, men and women suffer equally.

That Monday morning, I was late in returning to the Ponderosa. Maggie was amiably trotting along when, for some reason, she balked and wouldn't move. I wondered if she was ill or some such thing and I let up on the reins, intending to get off and check her – not that I had any idea what to look for – but as soon as the reins loosened, Maggie suddenly took off and swerved to the side of the road and began to pull up grass. I was taken by surprise and grabbed the saddle horn and a hunk of mane to keep my seat. It took me some time to get Maggie back on the road. I had kicked her, tugged on the reins, smacked her neck with the flat of my hand so hard it hurt me, but she ignored me, continuing with her snack. I had sat and listened to the sound of her eating and was inspired with one last idea. The branches of a tree spread over us and Maggie's broad back was so high that I could reach a thin branch. I pulled it down, intending to use it as a switch if I could just snap it. I suppose that out of the corner of her malicious eye, Maggie saw the motion of the branch coming closer and suddenly she started, taking off at a canter; she must have had some previous experiences with a switch – with her mulish behavior, I could well believe it. I almost tumbled over backwards and had to grab the saddle horn again.

"You confounded bitch!" I screamed at her but she just kept on cantering, ignoring me completely as I sawed her mouth with the reins; she knew we were going to the Ponderosa and headed there with no direction from me.

Adam was waiting as I rode into the yard. Finally, Maggie quickly stopped and I fell against her neck. I'm sure I looked in disarray. Adam was sitting on the porch, leaning his chair against the wall and cleaning his nails with his knife. He looked at me but didn't drop the chair legs yet. And I became uneasy. Perhaps Mary Mackenzie had worked her poison against me after all. I would just have to wait.

"Well, I'm here," I said, my voice, slightly treble. I dismounted – none too gracefully, almost falling on my ass. I think Maggie smiled.

"So you are – and almost 30 minutes late." He dropped the chair down to all four legs and stood up, pocketing the knife.

"Well, Maggie…"

Adam interrupted me. "I don't care why you're late. All that matters is that you are. If you're ever late again, you're fired. Now mount up. We're checking for strays, mavericks." He stepped off the porch and went to his horse, checked the cinch and then mounted; I noticed he was wearing a gun belt as well as having a rifle in a scabbard.

I was going to be taught to shoot last week – Hoss had volunteered – but with the fight and such, that never happened. But my father had shown me a .42 he kept in a drawer and gave it to me. It wasn't loaded but it was uncomfortably tucked in my waistband. It sat heavily and awkwardly, poking out against my dungaree fabric as if my genitalia were high on my right side.

It took me multiple tries to get on Maggie; she kept moving in a circle, trying to bite me. But what can I expect – she was female and as most women do, I imagine, tried to avoid being mounted. But once I was on, I felt proud – until Adam smirked and shook his head.

"Did you bring a lunch?" he asked.

"Oh, no. I…I didn't think of it…" My voice died out and I waited.

"Aren't you going to ask for a canteen?"

"Well, I…"

"You didn't think of it."

"No." I was embarrassed and was going to explain that I had been in such a hurry that I hadn't thought of such things but with Adam, excuses wouldn't work.

"Go in the barn and get a canteen. Fill it from the pump. I'll wait."

He sat patiently on his horse while I dismounted, fetched the canteen and filled it. Then I looped the strap over the saddle horn and stated to mount. Adam watched, leaning on one arm that rested on the cantle. I had sudden inspiration. I checked the cinch. I felt Adam was waiting to see if I would but while I did. Maggie swung her head around and bit me on the thigh.

I yelped and swatted her and Maggie jumped and trotted off while I cursed a blue streak. And Adam laughed that low throaty laugh of his. The thrill of those tones was the only things that dissipated the pain and embarrassment.

"She's been waiting to get me!" I yelled.

"And she did," he said, still chuckling. "Now get her and mount up. We need to get started."

Maggie avoided me, would trot off in the opposite direction while I chased her about the yard, Adam watching. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Adam pushed his horse in front of her and she swung around my way. I grabbed her reins and Maggie finally stopped. I tightened her reins and managed to mount up. Then Adam rode out and I followed, my chest heaving from exertion, my face hot with embarrassment.

It's amazing how large the Ponderosa really is. One could ride for days, I'm certain, and still not see all of it. The Cartwrights were land-rich, to be sure; no wonder the females wanted to latch onto one. I wondered how much more land they would accrue before that era broke down and ranching was no longer lucrative. I knew what was happening, how more and more homesteaders were traveling west and wanting land – it would lead to range wars and then there was the railroad and all the talk about westward expansion. But the Cartwrights must know those things. As we rode along in a southerly direction, the land turned from lush green to inhospitable stretches without trees or grazing grass. The landscape was still hilly – not desert flat - but was more and more covered by scrub cactus and a few trees. And it was all the Ponderosa.

"If you see a steer, call out," Adam said. "This isn't grazing land and there shouldn't be any stock this far out."

"What do you do if we find one?"

"Bring it in. If it's ours, we take it back to the herd. If it's a neighbor's, we pen it until they come for it. If it's unbranded – a maverick – it's ours to brand. That's the law of the land."

"People don't brand their stock?"

"Usually, but sometimes they put it off and a young animal wanders away from the herd. We can't fence in the whole Ponderosa so they sometimes come on the property."

We rode in silence and the sun became hotter. It seemed we were going in semi-circles, first a large one and then smaller and smaller ones that turned back onto themselves. I supposed that in that manner, we would find any steer that was out there. But as the sun rose higher, I became uncomfortably hot, my shirt sticking to me. I took off my hat and fanned myself with it. But the sun was so bright – blinding white – that I put it back on. It was like riding in a furnace and I wondered how Adam could bear it. His shirt was stuck to his back as well and the waistband of his dungarees was dark with moisture. It was all I could do to hold on to Maggie's reins and sit upright.

Finally, Adam pulled up and Maggie stopped as well. Both horses snuffed the air and Adam's horse tossed its head, obviously displeased to be stopped out there so far from the barn.

"Don't think there are any strays in this section. Let's head back to the house for lunch."

I nodded and followed Adam. We still rode in silence for quite a while and I noticed again the change in landscape; we were leaving the desolate area and heading back toward the grazing land. I wondered how Adam knew where we were and in which direction to go. But I was too hot and far too tired to really care. Maggie clomped on behind Adam's horse, her head lolling, her body covered with splotches of foamy sweat. I relaxed and reached for my canteen. It was at that moment that Maggie, infernal animal that she was, swung over to a patch of grass on the right and I toppled off on the left, slamming flat into the dirt. I was knocked breathless.

I hadn't made any noise except a "Ooomph," as I hit the ground, but when I opened my eyes, Adam was crouched over me. I could see the glistening beads of sweat on his upper lip, the little scar from some unknown accident. And he was so close I breathed him in.

"Let me get you some water."

I struggled to sit up, my hair stuck to my head, and Adam was quickly back with a canteen. I took a long, deep swig and handed it back, my hand shaking.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"Yeah." He put the cap back on but before he stood up, I reached for his arm and said, "Adam…" He looked at me expectantly, still crouched near me, and I – don't judge me unless you been in such a place, so near to someone you adore and long to be with - I moved closer, grabbed the back of his neck, and kissed him. I kissed his lush, full mouth with all the desperate passion I possessed. I felt the hot moisture of his skin and the roughness of his beard, smelled his warm breath, felt the hardness of his bones and muscles and the dampness of the hair at the nape of his neck – but I felt no response from him.

We parted lips. He appeared stunned. He stood up and looked down at me. Then his eyes narrowed and he practically snarled. Suddenly, I felt profound regret. I had acted too soon.

"I….I had to try… I had to know if…" I stammered, my pulse thudding in my ears. I waited a heartbeat and then Adam spoke but they weren't the words I longed for - or those I had feared.

"Get back on your goddamn horse. And don't let your guard down again." I watched those slim hips of his as he walked away and realized he may have been cautioning himself as well as me; he wouldn't let his guard down around me again. Mary must have told him my confession. I was now sure. And it was to Adam's credit that he hadn't avoided me. Or slammed a fist into my face after I kissed him and left me out there to find my way back to the Ponderosa. The man was secure in his sexuality, I had to give him that. He knew who he was and what he wanted. And I loved him all the more for it even though he didn't want me. I'm such a hopeless fool.

Once back at the house, we scrubbed up before lunch, Adam sluicing his neck under the pump. I had stood back until he was finished. We said nothing. At lunch, Ben Cartwright joined us at the table and the tension eased. We ate left-over roast beef sandwiches on thick-cut bread and drank glasses of creamy buttermilk. Father and son talked strays and the Morgan ranch and discussed purchasing the few acres between the properties, guessing their value and possible use. Then, after the meal, Adam told me to mount up – we were heading out to another part of the Ponderosa. I did as told, and we again rode in silence, my horse following Adam's lead. I couldn't help but wonder what Adam was thinking.

We found a stray – actually, I found it. Despite what you may think of me, I'm not just some love-blind, besotted idiot – I was determined to earn my dollar a day on principle alone.

From horseback, Adam lassoed it, effortlessly tossed the loop about its horns and then pulled tight. It was fascinating the way the rope lazily arced through the air and landed perfectly like a lover's embrace; the man couldn't make a false move had he tried. There was a natural elegance about Adam that I envied as well as admired. I wondered if I would ever be as comfortable with myself as he was with himself.

Adam smoothly dismounted and looped the rope about his saddle horn, hanging the remaining coiled rope on it as well – he had only let out about 20 feet. I dismounted as well. Adam didn't tell me to or ask me to but I felt I should, letting the reins drop since Maggie was trained to remain in place that way. But she evilly eyed me. I knew she was already plotting how she would sabotage my next attempt to mount up.

"Is it a Ponderosa steer?" I quietly asked. Adam was running his hand over the animal's flank.

"Yes. We'll take it back to the herd."

"Can you teach me to lasso like that?" I asked, my voice quavering. I wanted to talk about the kiss. I had to know how he felt about it, about me.

"I don't think so," he said. "Hoss' better at it than I am and has the patience. But Jett would be the one to teach you. I'll talk to him." Adam began to mount up but stopped and faced me. "I haven't said anything yet about…what happened because I wanted to consider. Not the kiss – I know how I feel about that – but what to tell you, if anything. Sometimes it's best to act as if a thing never occurred and that was a consideration, but I can't because Mary told me what you said, about your attraction to me. She hates you quite a bit." He grinned. "I think she may actually see you as competition."

"Yes. I knew she hated me and I don't think she's sure of your…affection. I can't really blame her for either. I said some….unkind things to her but she snapped right back at me. She said she hoped I shot myself!"

Adam smiled slightly and I realized he didn't know about Mary's husband, that he had been shot by a male lover. I considered telling him but – and here comes my petty side again – if I told Adam, he might have sympathy for Mary and go visit her that night and I didn't want him to. But then, I rationalized, it was Mary's story to tell, not mine. I suddenly felt righteous again.

"Virgil, I'm not going to lie and say I'm flattered you find me attractive – because I'm not."

"But, Adam…" I wanted to tell him how beautiful he was, that he was someone whom people of both sexes would find attractive – he was Adonis of ancient Greece – the most beautiful man about, but he put up his hand to stop me.

"I have to admit that years ago, in college, I…let's call it 'experimented', with some fellow students. The only girls available to us were the town girls whose parents would sic their daughters on one of us in the hopes of making a good marriage, or, a prostitute. Most of us had little spending money and couldn't go that route so we explored with one another. There were pleasant aspects to it but…as for myself, I prefer the feel of a woman, the softness of round arms, full thighs and firm breasts. You might try it sometime – it might surprise you."

"Is that why you introduced me to Myra Rivers?" My voice quavered – Adam was breaking my heart. "Did you hope I would want her instead of you?"

He merely chuckled. "No. Mary hadn't yet told me about the conversation between you two – actually hadn't until later that night although I suspected. Myra seems, at least from what I know, to be a lovely girl, a naïve and innocent girl, who would enjoy a little male attention no matter how short-lived. It was because I introduced the two of you that Mary related the conversation you had; she said you would only break Myra's heart if she fell in love with you since you were only interested…well, you know what she told me.

"But, Virgil, don't expect anything from me but amiability. I'm not worried about having you around – especially now that you know there's no hope for it. Anyway, I'll be glad to show you the ropes of ranching so you'll understand your customers, but that seems to be what your father wants – not you." Adam waited, his eyes gentle.

"You're right. I don't want to know more about ranching. I already know I hate it! I hate the smell of horse shit and stepping in cow dung and being hot and sweaty and around other cowboys who reek of stale whiskey and unwashed bodies and I hate the horses and…I hate the whole filthy thing." I found myself near tears.

Adam chuckled. "Yeah, it's not too pleasant."

"And I don't want to be a banker! You - you were the only reason I agreed to any of this," I explained to Adam. "But now…"

"Let's take this steer back to the herd." He mounted up and waited while Maggie and I did our little dance with one another until she finally deigned to let me mount up.

We rode along in silence but I had to know. "Are you going to marry Mary Mackenzie?"

Adam didn't answer and I watched his broad back, waiting. Finally, he said, "I don't know. But if I do, it won't be for a while. I have other things planned before I settle down."

It gave me a sense of perverse satisfaction; I was never going to have Adam – never – but then Mary wouldn't have him either – at least not for a very long time.

I spent the rest of the day thinking, considering and watching Adam, storing up memories of the exact way he spoke, how he placed his fingers when his hands were on his hips. I treasured the rebellious lock of hair that often fell onto his forehead - and each little gesture, the way he leaned his head and rubbed his earlobe with the opposite hand when thinking, the cocking of an eyebrow when he was dubious, and most of all, that flashing smile. I believe I already quoted to you the line that Shelley wrote about his lost friend Keats, in his poem **Adonaïs** : _The Light whose smile kindles the Universe._ It was so fitting a description of Adam. I'll remember his smile, his light, even on my deathbed, no matter who is clasping my withered hand.

That evening, after a dinner of crusty bread and white bean soup seasoned with sausage and onions and wild garlic, I asked Ben Cartwright if I could write a letter to my grandmother and a friend back in Boston.

"Of course," Ben said, his pipe in his left hand. "Top right-hand drawer. There's a seal as well. I'll send one of the hands in to post it; I have a few things to go out myself. And if you want privacy, feel free to take everything to your room."

"Oh, no, no - this is fine here," I said, weakly smiling. "And if you could spare the time, sir, I would appreciate your advice on how I can break to my father that…well, that I don't want to be a banker or a cowhand."

Adam glanced up from his book and gave me that look – the arched brow. Hoss and Joe, sitting at a small round table and playing a game of checkers, looked my way. I imagine they would all talk about me later.

"Of course, I can spare the time. Just let me know when you've finished." Ben smiled and went back to his pipe.

I sat in the green leather chair. The broad desk was a well-made piece of furniture, the drawers slid smoothly and the desktop under the leather blotter was glossy with polish over many years. The desk held history. I wondered how many contracts or letters to loved ones had been written here. Had Ben sat here and written copious letters to his son, Adam, while he had been away at college? _My dearest son…_

"Y'know, I always wished I had someone to write to," Hoss said, studying the checker board.

"Yeah," Joe replied. "Maybe you could write them for checker-playing tips." Joe jumped one of Hoss' pieces. "But no one you know is that smart." And Joe ducked his head as Hoss feigned swatting him, shooting back, "Includin' you!".

I attended to my task. I looked at the fine paper, my pen poised. I knew what I would write, and other than the date and the salutation, whether it was _Dear Grandmother_ or _Dear Ambrose_ , the contents would be the same:

 _I will soon be returning to Boston. I have decided not to go into banking, much to my father's distress. I believe a person needs to safeguard the joyous relationships that come into his life as well as be near the people he loves. And so, I return to you…_

~ Finis ~


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